


A Steelponcho Dawning

by DistantStorm



Series: The Dawning 'Verse [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, The Dawning, holiday romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-16 03:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: A Dawning romance featuring the Commander and the Clan Steward, their feelings for each other coming to a head during the first Dawning celebration following the Red War, featuring Lord Saladin, city food, eventual smut, and a whole lot of pining.





	1. Chapter 1

Just before he adjourns the Consensus, Commander Zavala says, “A reminder that Lord Saladin will be arriving next week with the intent of hosting the Iron Banner through the Dawning. I would remind everyone that with the Faction Rallies, Crucible, and Iron Banner all inevitably inspiring competition that we remember what this time of year is about. Dismissed.”

Per usual, Hawthorne is waiting for him when he exits the hall. Usually, one or both of them are too hyped up to do anything productive after the hostilities that typically consume these bi-weekly gatherings of the powers that be. Especially with her adjusting to her new role, specifically the responsibilities, protocols, and expectations that came with, Suraya had taken to asking the Commander questions or voicing her concerns afterward, and he found that such discussions were best done either over a meal, or at the very least, some caffeine. The walk down to the City usually gave her some freedom to think through her questions and, more importantly, get some fresh air after spending hours locked up in the Vanguard Hall.

It was getting colder, scant flakes of snow breezing by as they fall into step together. They are almost to the area of the Tower reserved as residences for the Vanguard and any other high-ranking officials who chose to keep a flat atop the wall when her steps slow and she looks at the swirling snow around them.

“It’s a long walk down there,” She says to him. “You want to ditch the armor and put on something that actually keeps you warm?”

He laughs. “I will be fine, Suraya. The Light is useful to Guardians for more than battle.” He puts a hand on her cheek. She is frigid. He is pleasantly warm.

He feels the grumble she makes through his palm before he removes his hand. “Okay, got it. Awoken furnace.” She rolls her eyes in mock irritation. “Must be nice.”

“I learned very little about solar abilities aside from this,” Zavala hums back. “It certainly has its advantages, but burning hammers do not interest me.”

“I thought it was a maul?”

He shrugs. She giggles. “Of course,” He backpedals, suddenly self-aware of his flippancy, “All of the Titan orders and abilities are of equal importance, do not get me wrong-”

She nudges his forearm with her elbow. “No need to explain it to me, Zavala. I am the last person to be passing judgement. But, speaking of judgement,” She segways for as much for his personal comfort as for sake of moving the conversation along, “This meeting was way lighter on it than the others, thankfully. Anyway, I would like to know more about Saladin-”

“Lord Saladin.”

“Yeah, him-”

“No, I mean  _Lord_  Saladin. He was my teacher, Suraya. He is deserving of your respect.”

“Sure. Lord Saladin,” She agrees, with a roll of her eyes that he'll never break her of, “Tell me about him over lunch. Especially stories about both of you. Also,” She leans over to him conspiratorially, falling out of step with him to do so, “This diner we’re going to? It has amazing pie.”

Of course it does, Zavala thinks. That earns her a laugh as he shakes his head. “I'm beginning to think this is all a rouse to coerce me to take you for a meal. Do you actually have things you need to discuss?”

“Please. If I insisted on doing this every time I needed help, we’d go at least three times a day.” She ducks her head, giving him a sheepish smile. “I actually have questions I save up, since, y’know, I haven’t been alive for more than this age of the city and you’re ancient enough to remember most of them - I think.”

He rolls his eyes. “I might be old, but I’m not senile, Hawthorne.”

“Most of the time,” Suraya teases, brown eyes sparkling with a playful glint. She pulls her hood closer to her neck to abate the cold, and his eyes narrow on rosy cheeks and a pink nose. Ignoring her jibe, he can’t help but wonder if she would prefer a scarf in periwinkle or red.

-/

He enjoys spending these afternoons(and the occasional evening) with her, following meetings of the Consensus. Over the last few months since her appointment as Clan Steward, he's had the distinct pleasure of watching her come into her own. He'd asked her to stay and monitor the clans because she had owned them since they were civilian flags waving in the refugee camps at the farm. She excelled at bringing people together, at inspiring unity amongst the Guardians as well as the general population both inside and out of the walls.

Hawthorne, for all her reputation as someone who flew off the handle - there were rumors amongst FOTC about what she could do with a frying pan that she always brushed off(which meant they were true) - was surprisingly poised in Consensus meetings. She'd come in humble but firm, and eager to debate things for the benefit of her people - all people. Instead of screaming when someone voiced something that contradicted her beliefs, she backed up cool statements with fact.

Secretly, he liked to believe he had rubbed off on her - a little. Of course, the last time he'd thought that in a meeting, she'd thrown an absolute fit at something he personally had said, refused to meet with him afterward, and come back hours later to debate with him until the early morning hours.

He remembered fondly taking her to breakfast once they’d finished going round after round of mental warfare. She’d apologized quietly into her tea for the myriad of insults she’d volleyed at him, saying that she was only trying to do what was best for the clans and their people. They looked to her, and she was beholden to defend their best interests wherever possible. His reply was to convince the waitress to bring her the largest slice of apple pie, fresh from the baker's oven, and make her promise never to change.

It is undeniable that he values her opinion, her spirit, her company. She is invaluable to him. A friend. It has been quite some time since he’s truly had a friend. Despite technically pulling rank, they regarded each other as equals, she being his civilian counterpart in all but name.

Not that he needs a sounding board. Certainly, they discuss major issues, and he’d be remiss if he denied ever asking her opinion on items he’d been pressed to decide for the City, but theirs was an easy camaraderie.

She would spend hours reading up on the City’s history, that of their enemies, the Factions, and even the occasional recreational story he’d send her way when he felt she needed a break. In the same way, she’d know exactly when to clear her throat, pull the tablet out of his hands, and force him to take a break - even if she cleverly disguised it as needing him to tend to her until he was out of his own head. His Ghost was certainly pleased with the arrangement, Zavala’s mental health had never been more in hand.

It had probably been a century - maybe more - since he’d looked forward to more than just work. His work was important, irrefutably so, but he found he had a clearer resolve with more anchors than those constantly being forced upon him by political bodies who would see him rip himself apart to please all their whims.

He found himself eager to set aside his reports in lieu of spending quiet evenings lost in crochet while she thumbed through a book, journalled, or tended to Louis. More likely, she’d do all three with the day’s crucible matches playing quietly in the background, take-away containers scattered across one of their kitchen tables if she was feeling adverse to cooking. And oh, if there was something that was incredible about Suraya Hawthorne that was not humanity or clan related, it was that the woman could cook.

At first it had come as a surprise, her casual refusal of more enthusiastic plans for a night spent in his company, sometimes exchanging few words and almost always ending in him waking her to send her home or to her bed while he saw himself out. The rough 'n tumble vibe others so commonly appointed to her could not be further from the truth. She drank very little, hated large, boisterous taverns, and kept a small circle of friends. There was something comfortable about their arrangement, their companionship. Something that came from not discussing, not making it any more than it was.

...Something that was easily avoided, but fierce and strong, exhilarating and new. He refused to really think about it, for fear of ruining the balance they’d managed to attain - that stark contrast from their original interactions during the war, at the Farm. He knew he trusted Suraya Hawthorne with his life, she’d certainly saved it a time or two. He knew in his heart of hearts that she too trusted him implicitly. That was enough. He dared not consider that soft edge in her glances, the occasional brushes of fingertips(or arms, or legs, or her head on his shoulder), their ridiculous ability to wind up on the same wavelength despite varying experiences.

Zavala is pragmatic, rational. He knows better than to look at things through the lens of what he wants, and instead to see them as they are. But so much of it really seems to be the same, no matter how he looks at it. Which is why he refuses to think about it, and instead cherish whatever interactions they have, for what they are. No reading into it allowed.

Even if it meant ignoring that warm, tight feeling in his chest at her successes, or the lack of air in his lungs when she'd look at him a certain way - the way that said she sees him as a man who is more than a title or an immortal or a weapon or a leader, sees beyond arcing fists and too-bright eyes into a soul that is old and new all at once. Or, even still, holding her heartbreak close to his own when she failed, allowing her space when all he wanted was to hold her close and chase it away.

No, he absolutely couldn’t think about it, because he’d be in way over his head, and everything would change.


	2. Chapter 2

Suraya Hawthorne is not having the greatest morning. It started out alright - she woke up early, managed to clean up some of the clutter that was her life(or at least her occasionally lived in flat), and was ready earlier than usual for her first meeting at the Tower - but quickly spiraled downhill.

Shaxx was pacing, waiting for her at her post. She was honestly surprised that he knew where it was. He never came this way. Louis backed off her gauntlet in a hurry at the sight of the hulking, agitated man. Based on the direction he was headed, she assumes her bird is off to the wilds to hunt. She probably wouldn't see him for most of the day.

She sets down her pack, already irritated that the wind clips across her ledge perfectly. The weather had previously seen the wind come from the other direction, avoiding her usual sanctuary entirely.

Shaxx wheels on her. “What exactly,” He seethes, “Is the meaning of this?”

He's fisting a piece of paper that she's pretty sure has a list of daily and weekly bounties for the clans on it. He presents it to her, and she's surprised it does not vaporize under his concealed glare(she assumes he's glaring).

Nimble fingers smooth open the crumpled document and read. Yes, it is absolutely the week's bounties. There are two more Iron Banner bounties than there are Crucible ones, and the reward for the more difficult of them is more powerful gear. The easy way out is to tell him it was Zavala's idea, let him take the heat, but something that feels like a mix of intuition and loyalty tells her not to, even though it was.

“You have bounties every single day, Shaxx,” She tells him. It doesn't come off as demurely as she'd hoped. “We're trying to foster all of the activities in the Tower. That includes the limited time ones.”

“Yes, and every single time that the Iron Banner comes to town, you lot roll out the red carpet and bow down, handing out the best gear like candy to anyone willing to join. Offering a better reward for matches won in his arena will only increase the number of Guardians dropping mid-match in Crucible to queue up for him. Did you ever stop to think about that?” His voice creeps up in volume with every word, so but the time he's done, he's screaming at her.

Suraya, taking in the harsh breaths and barely restrained rage, realizes that she has to pick her words carefully, even if nothing will quell his rage. She holds back a sigh. “What can I do to make you feel better about it?”

A large fist smashes the paper as he rips it out of her hands. “You are kidding, yes? Make  _me_  feel better?! Do you bring this level of incompetence to the clans as well? The Crucible-”

“Is an age-old tradition that will surely survive despite the next few weeks of Iron Banner, Shaxx.” Zavala's words are evenly measured and overtly soothing. He ascends up the steps leading to her landing, surprising them both. “Perhaps I could coerce you into frightening some of our newer recruits instead of the Clan Steward? They could use the practice.”

“You belittle me,” Shaxx grouses, shoving the Commander aside - nearly into the brick of the building her landing is built into - to take his leave. “Every time that bastard comes to town.  _I_  am the one who stood by humanity, when the Tower fell. Remember that, Hawthorne, the next time you arrange your bounties. The Crucible stands with the City, always.”

Suraya sighs openly once the Crucible handler has traversed through the Bazaar and is well into the tunnel-like corridor that leads to the courtyard and eventually his post. The Commander's eyes are contemplative.

“He is always like this when it comes to Iron Banner,” Zavala cautions. “Do not let it trouble you.”

She nods, shoulders hunching as the wind gusts between them. “I'll try not to. I always forget that he's way bigger up close.”

“Many do. They forget that while he seems to be a figurehead for his 'game,’” Zavala is sure to quote his last word with a curl of his fingers, “Shaxx is an incredibly talented, seasoned warrior. Take it from someone who has fought beside him.”

“You aren't going to try and force him to get along with Saladin, are you?”

Zavala chuckles, just a bit. “No. Not this time. We will be lucky if they are cordial with each other.”

She agrees with him there, but there are obviously other matters at hand. “So… You're never by this early. What's up?”

“I will be busy most of today,” He says, “Lord Saladin will be here tonight to set up for tomorrow. I have strike duty with Cayde and -”

The smirk that blooms on her face is full of mirth. She knows exactly what he wants. “You're supposed to come at me with an enticing offer, Zavala. Not 'strike rota with Cayde.’ That's the opposite of a thing I want to do to help you out.”

“Please?”

“Oh, wow. You forget we're friends now, and ‘please’ doesn't work on me like it did at the Farm.” She rolls her eyes and smiles at him when he doesn't react beyond a deepening frown. “You know I'm going to do it, I just keep hoping you'll make some cute pout I can tease you about.”

He rolls his eyes. “That will never happen.”

“You never know,” She says with a laugh. “So. Strikes. When, and for how long?”

“An hour from now, and most of the day?”

“Huh. You must hate me.”

He’s sure not to deny it, anything otherwise will spark a debate. “I have forty-five minutes to brief you,” He says deadpan. “And I stopped to get you apology coffee like you demanded the last time I asked you to take strike duty with him. It's in my office, where it is warm.”

“Did you also get me a muffin?”

“No, but there were hot sandwiches and mini-pies.”

“Did you-”

For a color so close to ice, his eyes are warm. “Of course I got both.”

She beams. “You’re amazing, you know that?” She loops her arm through his. “Let's go!”

If she leans in a little closer than she should as they traipse through the mostly vacant Tower, she chalks it up to cold winds and that solar light thing he did to keep warm the other day. Zavala certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

-/

The Blustery Brew is loud. He rarely comes here anymore - fine by him, unless he's struck by passing nostalgia - and yet it feels like nothing has changed except his decreasing tolerance for drunk Guardians. He sits with his old mentor at the far corner of the bar, tucked away from the rest of the blundering fools singing rowdy songs and the rest who are screaming over highlights of a Crucible match that's over a week old.

Cayde saunters in, garnering the usual raucous attention as he sidles up to the bar. Beside Zavala, Saladin takes a swig of his ale, scoffing under his breath at the casual manner of the Hunter Vanguard. Zavala knows Cayde infuriates his traditionalist teacher, his blatant flippancy an affront to everything the Iron Lord stands for.

The Exo swaggers from an abused table (that he's stuck his knife in as a seat marker) to the bar. As if he knows who he annoys the most, he comes up alongside Zavala while Saladin grunts and purposefully pays attention to the monitors on the other end of the bar with a glower.

“Hey Big Blue!” Zavala feels the prickly feeling of agitation from his teacher. “You got the first round, right? Seeing as you stuck me with Poncho all day and it was horrible.”

“Poncho?” Comes the indignant grouch beside the Commander.

“You are fortunate she agreed to assist you in my stead. Unless you would have preferred to work alone?”

Cayde shrugs. “She's almost as uptight as you. I say, let them have fun beating up the baddies, meanwhile, she's more concerned with salvaging materials and trying to get ahead. She's almost as bad as you!”

“Nothing you are saying makes me want to buy you that drink, Cayde.” Zavala tends to his ale. “Suraya is diligent and practical. You could learn from her.”

“No thanks, pal. You gonna buy me a drink, or what?”

“Get lost,” Saladin seethes. “Some of us are trying to catch up.”

The Hunter holds his hands out in a placating manner. “Sorry, sorry. I can read the room. Catch you later.” He slinks over to the other end of the bar, with an audience far more receptive to his hijinks and, arguably most importantly, the barkeep.

Saladin shakes his head once Cayde is gone. “I know he is skilled, but he is a mockery of what we stand for,” The Iron Lord grouses.

“He is a steadfast ally, willing to do what it takes to be victorious,” Zavala concedes in his Fireteam member's favor. “He was instrumental in getting the Guardian aboard the Almighty.”

“I suppose. That does not mean I have to like him.”

“Certainly not.” Zavala agrees.

“Who is the person he is complaining about?” The elder Titan asks, turning the conversation somewhere more neutral. “They sound far more reasonable than that idiot,” He motions down the bar at the instigating Hunter pouring beer down one of his subordinates’ throat. His knife is still left unattended at a table across the room.

There is a subconscious smile, a tiny thing that the Iron Lord doubts Zavala realizes he does - the slightest pull of his lips to compliment a gleam in his eyes. “Suraya Hawthorne,” Zavala intones. “Have you heard of her?”

He nods. “Tyra speaks highly of her. The Farm Overseer.”

“She is the Clan Steward now.” Zavala takes a drink. “I offered her the position, after the war.”

That doesn't quite add up to his mentor. “Tyra wrote that you despised her.”

The Commander is surprised they've discussed this, but recovers easily enough. “We reconciled our differences, before we took back the City.” He admits, after a moment. “We had the same goal.”

“Interesting,” The other Titan replies, stroking his chin thoughtfully. His gut says that there is something here, something that requires further investigation. “You will introduce me?”

Zavala nods. “I think you'll like her.”

“Perhaps dinner, then?”

There is a smirk and the beginnings of a laugh. “The only person who appreciates City food more than you do is Suraya. She will be ecstatic.” The look on Zavala's face is one he has not seen on the Awoken in some time. “I'll find a time that works for all of us.”

Saladin has to turn away lest his pupil see just how high his brows lift toward his hairline. Interesting, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

The still-recently awoken Traveler always seems to cast a pale light into the sky while it silently guards the city beneath it. Too often, Suraya finds herself staring at it in astonishment: easily distracted from work and her duties as she watches its pieces spin around in a quiet orbit around the largest part of its mass. Some said the great machine looked ugly, but she liked it better this way. Imperfect, yet beautiful in a way that spoke of the challenges it and all of those who protect and were protected by it faced everyday.

Some nights, when she feels overwhelmed, she makes a large loop around the Tower, lingering at the points where the Tower’s catwalks and balconies face toward the great white ball in the sky and the rebuilding City below it. The combination of this time of year’s crisp, cold air and the view is perfect weather for thinking things through. More so than usual. The dusting of snow across the top of the Tower and the crunch of it beneath her boots makes her feel more like she’s in the wilds rather than domesticity. It makes it easier to stare out at the concrete and the oranges-yellow-whites that made up the lights of the City carrying on below.

She often finds herself standing where Zavala stands, during the daytime. One would never notice unless they looked for it, but there are small, barely noticeable dips in the steel railings from his iron grip and the anxious bang of his fists against it. She sometimes puts her narrow, smaller hands in the dips, the metal cold, but worried smooth by his might. It’s soothing, in a way.

Much like he is, to her.

It’s been several days since she’s seen him for more than a minute, and she’s kept her messages with him to strict business. The flames of the Iron Banner roar well into the night, and she finds herself listening to the sage words the last of the Iron Lords gives to lingering Guardians who seek reward packages after he’s stopped announcing the day’s matches. She suspects that Zavala has been busy tending to his guest. If Zavala treats Saladin at all like he had treated her when she first took up residence in the City, she is certain he’s been busy.

There is a quiet crunch in the inch or two of snow behind her, and she does not need to look to know it is the man she’s been thinking of. He steps around her, lingering just close enough that the bottom of his pauldron brushes the top of her shoulder.

“Evening,” She greets quietly. “What’re you doing out here so late?”

“Waiting for you.”

She turns her head to the left to regard him. He’s looking down at the City lights, twinkling in oranges and yellows, the jet-trails of sparrows and ships a shade of blue lighter than his eyes.  “For me?”

“You’ve been making yourself scarce,” He tells her. And then, quietly, “I’ve missed you.”

“I miss you too,” She mumbles back, leaning against his arm. He's always been good about letting her come to him, or knowing when she's ready for company. “Been busy.”

“Avoiding me, perhaps.” Suraya glares up at him and he grins though he doesn’t tip his head down the little ways it would take to look at her. She knows he wouldn’t so openly smile if they weren’t reasonably alone, and he certainly wouldn’t be teasing her so.

“Y’know,” She says quietly, “I like our friendship. Gets a little lonely when we're too busy and only get to act all professional and distanced. Makes it feel like this is some big secret.”

He chuckles, though it’s mostly a rumble that she feels through his arm, quiet-like. “I wouldn’t want to frighten the Guardians,” He says softly. “Likely for the best that they continue to believe us to be colleagues who spend entirely too much time working.”

“That part’s true though,” She laughs. “We’re both. By the way, you still have to finish that blanket you started at my place,” She reminds him. “I can’t curl up with it until you’re done or else I’ll ruin it.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“Actually, I am cold,” She corrects, smiling now. “And I’ve been tucking my feet under that blanket while you’ve been knitting it. So maybe I could tuck the rest of me under it, if you ever finished it.” She waggles her eyebrows in a strange type of insinuation, a playful request.

It has the desired effect, and the Commander’s purpose seems to be realized, for next he says, “Come then, let’s go.”

“Now?” Suraya looks surprised. “It’s so late?”

“Do you have something to do in the morning?” Zavala’s gaze is fond. “I thought we both have a later shift.”

She shakes her head, agreeing with him. “No, I’m not doing anything before work, unless you count making breakfast in the morning.”

He smiles, turning her around with an arm on her shoulder. “See? Come, Suraya,” He murmurs quietly.

“Twist my arm,” She grouses as she relents, as though she’s made some grand concession. She laughs as he frowns, serious in the eyes of the rest of the Tower as they head toward her apartment walking just close enough that their arms touch.

Above them, Saladin Forge’s eyes follow the pair’s tracks through the small accumulation of snow. He has no idea what they’ve been saying, they are quiet, but his curiosity is beyond piqued.Their body language, despite how hard Zavala tries to remain professional, is comfortable. They are companions, Saladin realizes. Perhaps lovers?

Zavala was never one to keep companions around, and certainly not ones that worked with him. It’s good for him, the Iron Lord thinks. He’ll push his former student to set up plans for them to meet in the morning. It is late, which only further creates intrigue, but there are some things he does not care to know.

-/

Zavala wakes with a pleasant warmth against him, easily drifting back to sleep. A few moments later, when his eyes blink open, he finds again that he is heavily weighed down by that same feeling of warmth and comfort. It’s odd, his sleep addled brain thinks, because he so very rarely feels this cozy upon awakening. A gentle reach for the blanket, has him reorienting, because it is a crochet blanket, he is definitely not in a bed, and there is a weight on top of him - a body, soft and pliant - also asleep.

Vaguely, he recalls that he’d finished the blanket with Suraya dozing next to him, head lolling onto his shoulder occasionally. Once he’d tied it off, he should have told her to go to bed - he had - but she had wanted to stay on the couch, use the blanket for a bit since he’d finished it and the yarn was soft and cozy(and so was he, his brain reminds him of her half-asleep mumbling).

This was her fault, not his, he lies to himself when she hums into his chest and tightens her arms around him in her sleep. He breathes deep. She is clearly comfortable and needs the rest. They both do. He pushes the thought away that they would be more comfortable sleeping in their beds. He is content here, with the soft rise and fall of each of her breaths against him. A little while longer then, Zavala reasons. Not too much, though. He smooths a hand down the side of her face, wraps his arms around her (just to keep her secure, of course), and lets himself go.

The next time his eyes open, it is because of the light of morning coming through the windows, illuminating her flat. He looks down, surprised to find that he is not only alone, but the blanket is tucked around him tightly.

There is sound coming from the kitchen, the sizzle and spatter of something cooking. Something delicious. Eggs, and… something else. It smells like dough and butter. He leans his head back, closes his eyes.

He has no idea what time it is, but he's sure she would wake him up if it were late. He lays back against the arm of the couch and summons his ghost. She informs him quietly that all is well, around the same time Suraya pads quietly into the living room wearing the same clothes as the night before, with the addition of an oversized sweater to combat the cool morning air.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

He sits up and stretches, grunting in reply.

“You wanna stick around? It's early and I made enough for two. Coffee’s brewing.”

He nods. “Let me freshen up.”

When he returns to the small kitchen area, his breakfast is already plated and waiting for them, but she's coming up behind him, his tablet in hand.

“Sorry,” She says, handing it to him, “It was dead when I woke up. Figured you'd want it charged.”

“Thanks,” He replies, taking it back. “And for this,” He gestures at the omelette and pancakes on his plate.

She laughs. “This is nothing. Sorry to fall asleep on you. You seemed pretty content when I got up, but I'm sure you didn't sleep great.”

“I can assure you I've slept far worse.” He takes a bite of the omelette and has to pause. “This is incredible.”

He always says that about her cooking. “It's an omelette,” She says flatly. “The pancakes are my specialty.” She winks. “Also, you're an excellent pillow.”

He hides his cough with a sip of some freshly squeezed orange juice - preferable to burning his mouth on coffee. “You're not a horrible blanket, yourself,” He replies after a moment, and she blushes furiously. Turnabout is fair play.

He could absolutely do this more often, he acknowledges. He just wishes he could ignore the voice of reason inside him, the part of him that's more Commander and less Zavala, that says they should not.


	4. Chapter 4

He is  _late_.

Such an event is a rarity, and only ever caused by conflicts that include the general welfare of humanity, lives in danger, or something or someone creating a situation that could have catastrophic repercussions if not dealt with immediately. By nature, he is appropriately early five to seven minutes for a casual event, fifteen to twenty when meeting someone for something more formal, and right on time when an event calls for ‘fashionably late.’

Tonight, the reason delaying him is a strike in the EDZ that crops up and demands completion around mid-day, and could threaten the greater population’s water supply if not handled promptly. The only benefit to this poorly-timed emergency is that he is able to work with Devrim, and the two of them are business forward. They do not dawdle or create mayhem in their strike operations.

Trostland’s water supply returns to normal approximately five minutes before the time he’s made dinner reservations for. He’s messaged both parties that he’s supposed to be meeting an hour ago, apologizing profusely - duty calls - and letting them know to meet an hour later for dinner. Both replies are short, neither is upset, and both are understanding. It gives him at least enough time to doff his armor and put on clothing more appropriate for a Friday night dinner downtown so he can be on time for the revised reservation.

When he finally makes it to the restaurant - an Italian one, with good wine, homemade pasta, and low light to keep things warm and private - he’s surprised to see the two of them already sitting at a table. Lord Saladin is speaking animatedly, and Hawthorne has her fingers wrapped around a glass of wine, paying rapt attention. His mentor’s is nearly empty. Good conversation, Zavala hoped. Or, as Suraya had indicated when she suggested the restaurant, very good wine.

Her eyes find his immediately from across the restaurant, and her face breaks into a smile that puts the amused one she wore before to shame. It’s enough to distract the Iron Lord from his retelling of whatever story - Zavala assumes its regarding the wolves, easily the most adorable and light-hearted of Saladin’s stories - and Saladin turns his head to the left to regard Zavala as well.

The restaurant itself is very trendy, despite the bar being blocked off and in the process of rebuilding. Suraya had suggested Italian or hibachi, and had recommended this restaurant first for sake of having an atmosphere conducive to meeting someone for the first time. She said she wasn’t sure about what ambiance was, specifically, but this place had it. She also knew the owner, and had made sure everything would be to their satisfaction.

Really, he should not have been surprised about that. It felt like she knew everyone in the City.

As he sits down across from his mentor, he says, “I hope you have not been waiting long.”

“Not at all,” Saladin replies easily, and tops off his glass with the bottle left at the table. It’s almost empty, but he splits the remainder between himself and the Commander. “Ms Hawthorne-”

“Seriously, Suraya is fine,” She interjects.

“Fine,” He tuts. “ _Suraya_  suggested this. I would normally drink a white, but here we are.”

The quirk of Zavala’s eyebrows makes Suraya bite her lip, a little anxious, and take a sip of her wine. The Awoken shakes his head imperceptibly. “She has excellent taste,” He remarks, and joins them in sipping from his own glass. Her shoulders relax when he endorses her choices.

A waitress comes by a moment later, with another bottle of wine, which she uncorks and places in front of Hawthorne with a wink as she pulls out a pad to take their order. It’s another moment before the ambient noise of the restaurant - low voices and subtle music - rushes back in from the background.

“All right,” Saladin says, when they are more or less alone, “I’ve regaled her enough with my tales. Tell me how you two met,” He looks at Suraya with a gaze full of mirth.

“Oh, you don’t wanna hear that story,” Suraya says, shaking her head and hiding her smile behind the wine glass poised at her lips. “Trust me.”

“On the contrary,” The laughter of the Iron Lord is deep and hearty. “Your reaction is precisely why I would like to hear it.” He looks between them both.

She looks to Zavala - a quick flick of her eyes - then takes a deep breath, a swig of wine that’s less demure and more courage-invoking, and sighs.

“I believe it started with a lot of insults,” Zavala offers tentatively. Suraya looks at him sheepishly, anxious both not to step on Zavala's toes or make a fool of them both. That's an understatement. “I believe all of them were… inappropriate for a nice dinner, such as this.”

“Definitely not.” She takes another sip of her wine before admitting, “I was really nasty to you.”

“I was not nice to you either, if I recall,” The Commander concedes.

“Yeah,” Suraya says, “We were definitely enemies, at first.”

Saladin's lips pulled to his right. It wasn't really an answer, but if neither were forthcoming he wouldn’t press the issue. Tyra would certainly love the opportunity to write him a novel about it. “If you won't tell me the whole story, at least tell me what changed.”

Zavala inhales to speak, but Suraya beats him to the punch.

“We always had the same goal,” She says, quietly. “We were both trying to keep everyone together, give them hope. It just… manifested differently, I guess.” She smiles at Zavala, small and sweet. “We just-”

“We both had to concede that we did not have all the answers,” Zavala interjects. “But together, we stood a chance.” She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand before letting go. Her hand is warm, calloused, but her palm is weirdly soft. “I sorely underestimated humanity, and she-”

“I didn’t trust the Guardians. Always thought they acted like they were better than us regular folk. I was wrong. We’re all the same, deep down. We all want the same things. I was preaching it to the people but I guess I just needed a hand in believing it, myself.”

“Indeed,” Comes the quiet agreement to her right.

Saladin’s lips upturn, and he nods. “So now, here you are. Colleagues. Friends. Forged in combat and camaraderie. Quite a powerful political friendship, as well.”

“It has its uses,” Suraya affirms. “The people feel safer knowing that one of their own attends Consensus meetings.”

“The outsider’s view must be appreciated,” Saladin replies.

“Not as much as you'd think,” She replies. “I cause a lot of trouble and ask A LOT of questions.”

“You can’t be that bad,” The eldest of them says with a chuckle. Then, to Zavala, a bit more privately, “She seems rather sweet.”

“Tell that to her criminal record,” Zavala throws back. It's the kind of reply Saladin was hoping for. He wasn't the greatest at extracting information with well placed words, being more of a man of action himself, but he certainly knew how to make Zavala sing. Perhaps, though, that was the result of time and trust.

“Hey!”

Zavala isn’t the only one with expressive eyebrows. Saladin looks at his student who shrugs, while Suraya glares daggers at the Awoken. “Should I ask?” Saladin asks her.

“Feel free,” She says, with a smirk that’s more playful than aggressive. “It’s been expunged. I’m sure he’d love to tell you why.”  At the Commander’s glowing blink of surprise, Suraya can’t help but laugh. “What? You started it.”

He sighs, as she butters a piece of bread from the basket recently delivered to the table. “I had her record expunged because of her services during the war. Suraya kept the Farm together, and gave the people hope - hope that the Vanguard failed to give at the onset.” He looks up at Saladin and then back to her. Her eyebrows are raised in a goading arch, clearly expecting him to continue. He does, in a smaller voice. “And, she saved my life. In battle.”

Suraya slams down her wine glass with a solid thunk and an eye roll. “Don’t sound so happy about it, sheesh.”

“What-”

Zavala steamrolls right over the commentary. “But more than that, I wanted her to implement the Clans, to bring them back into the City. The good they were doing for the Farm-”

“You and I both know it had nothing to do with that. I could have had a record and still served the Clans.” Her eyes narrow.

The Vanguard Commander elaborates. “But you couldn’t have sat on the Consensus without argument. We need your voice, Suraya. We need to better listen to the people. You know their desires better than anyone.”

There’s a heated moment in which they stare at each other, having a conversation with just their eyes. She casts her deep brown eyes back at Lord Saladin, who waits the moment out for a bit before saying, “Not that the Clans are not important - tell me about them later, I am interested - but, how did you saved his life?” He redirects to a slightly less politically charged topic. And then, to Zavala, he says, “What did you do? For someone so level headed, your more creative ideas tend to get you into trouble. They always have.”

Suraya bites. “Centurion, meet sniper rifle.” She laughs. “Nothing crazy about it. Would have been no big deal if it had happened a few hours later when everyone got their Light back.”

“It was… close,” Zavala comments, unwilling to give the details.

“Yeah. Let’s not do that again, huh?” Her eyes have a glint to them and she licks her lips in a way that’s predatory as she swings them back to regard Lord Saladin, effectively closing the line of conversation that the Iron Lord is trying to have. They are both very private, he realizes as she continues. “Anyway. Creative ideas, huh? Tell me everything.”

By the time his fettuccine comes, Zavala is ready to hide under the table, metaphorically speaking. It was easy to forget that he was bright-eyed and new once, too. But certainly less easy to do so when his mentor is telling Hawthorne about the time he managed to striker-charge a Fallen Captain into a lake, thereby electrocuting them both.

When he gets overly embarrassed, a brush of a knee against his gives him pause. She cocks her head, pours him a bit more wine, before tending to her scampi. He knocks her knee back, gently, their legs braced against each other in silent support. Her eyes are alight with humor, and he decides it’s worth the aggravation and embarrassment.

And, over dessert, when they're all feeling the effects of good food and well paired wine, he absolutely shares the story he’s petitioned from Devrim about her and some very curious bears. She sputters, almost turning purple as Saladin laughs, the atmosphere comfortable and loose, all of them feeling that pleasant buzz. She recovers quickly enough, but let it be known that Commander Zavala gives as good as he gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's got some explicit content. Can't wait.


	5. Chapter 5

Dark eyes sizzle and sear as they gaze intently down at him. The most wicked of smirks has him keening, straining upwards to create more than just the slightest friction that she gives him. The slightest shake of her shoulders seems to ask if this is what he really wants. He nods, words failing him as he looks down his torso to where her fist is curled around him, tugging slow around throbbing blue flesh and lining him up for the main event.

He gasps as she sinks down on him, hips rolling slow and steady, just enough to keep him wildly aroused, but not so much that he crashes over the edge of his pleasure too quickly. Her hands find his shoulders and she demonstrates that he is to stay down, gripping him with lithe fingers as she fucks him into the bed.

Fractal patterns just beneath his skin shatter and reform, swirling quicker with each heave of his chest. The barest upturn of a smile is his only warning as she leans down, nuzzling the side of his head with loose hair, nose, and lips, stopping only to nip at the outline of familiar tattoos with blunt teeth that disguise pleasure as pain.

  
“Suraya,” He breathes. “Fuck, Suraya.” All the restraint in the world can’t stop him from releasing the bed sheets in lieu of grasping her hips hard enough to bruise so he can rut up into her hard and fast and  _more_.

She stops him by moving despite his grasp on her hips, meeting his thrusts halfway, sheathing and unsheathing him in rapid succession. Her breath comes in pants and he stills, using his strength to lift and drop her onto him slower, to keep this going as long as possible: a goal realized once more.

“You feel so good,” She tells him, the latter half of her words a moan when his hands leave her hips and travel up to caress twin globes, budded and craving his touch. She can’t do slow with his hands kneading her breasts, tweaking their sensitive peaks as he makes shallow dips upward into her warmth. Her hips begin to move out of time, selfishly chasing pleasure that’s just out of reach.

He reaches for her hands, allowing her to adjust the angle of her rocking at the same time she gasps and tenses, pushing down their entwined hands with more force than he was expecting, pinning them to the pillow under his head as she lays skin to skin against him, pebbled nipples almost electric against his pectorals.

Her breaths come out with moans on the end of them, quiet and only-for-him. “Please, Zavala,” She begs, frantically grinding against him, her walls spasming in anticipation. She’s close. “More. I need-”

His chest is heaving, hips rocking up into nothing as he wakes with a start, cock straining needy and thick against his belly. He pretends he’s still half asleep and not wide awake as he takes himself in hand, imagining dark skin, ebony-ink hair, blazing dark eyes, and warm, wet, heat sinking down atop him as he rocks his hips with abandon. He wants her. Unbearably, unapologetically, wants her.

If her name leaves his lips when he comes, he’s going to imagine that, too.

He wastes no time cleaning up afterward and is still panting from the exertion when he flops unceremoniously back on his bed, an out of character move not even his Ghost witnesses. For that, he’s thankful. This was… unexpected. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a dream of that nature, much less been moved to chase his own relief in such an urgent way. Carnal matters are something beautiful in their own right, he supposes, but has always been a lover who prefers giving to taking.

Ugh, he should not be thinking about this, he thinks to himself, forcing his body back under the covers, staring blankly at the ceiling with bright eyes. He must have had too much wine at dinner.

The lie doesn’t make him feel any better. Drunk actions are sober thoughts, his brain supplies helpfully. This is where his subconscious went, when uninhibited. It's a clear statement.

He sighs. Suraya Hawthorne is his closest friend. He is her best friend. He should not be - he cannot be attracted to his best friend.

Even if he is, and he knows it like he knows the sky is blue and the Traveler’s alive. It cannot be.

And yet, his attraction to her, it’s like finding the last piece of the puzzle has been right in front of him for so long. He’s tried for months now not to define it, not to come to terms with the way he feels for the brilliantly stubborn, falcon-handling, poncho-wearing, precision-sniping, tough-as-nails Clan Steward with her carefully guarded heart and quick-witted mouth to match an equally sharp mind.

Zavala is in love with her. He has been since-

The sigh leaves him with gusto, air expelling with force from his lungs. This is going to become complicated, and he knows it. It was already complicated, before explicit dreams and spending the night on her couch. He needs to think this through. He needs to be careful. He cannot jeopardize her position or her goals with his feelings. He’s had centuries to reflect on his shortcomings, to adapt, evolve, and grow into his skin. She only gets a fraction of that time, and this is not a world that is forgiving with reinventing one’s character: too fragile, delicate, and fledgling for such a thing.

His stomach drops at the thought, but his resolve does not waver at the thought of her mortality. If anything, it reminds him of how precious her life is, how special. She only gets one shot at living, and look at all she’s managed to do with less than a third of it. That, he reasons, is impressive.

He lays awake until the light of the dawn manages to light the edge of the bedroom’s windows, and when he finally sleeps, it’s only after recalling a memory of a warm body warm against his own, a head pressed against his chest and arms wrapped around him.

He's doomed and he knows it.


	6. Chapter 6

Zavala is acting rather strangely today, she thinks. All she said was, “I had a weird dream last night,” and suddenly he’s ignoring her.

But, she did have a weird dream, _honest_.

How often do people dream about their family - she means Devrim - befriending an enemy - aka a Fallen Dreg - and treating it to a meal like they’re allies and not mortal enemies? She doesn’t even get to explain the part where Devrim thought she was the crazy one for not wanting to sit down with them for tea and biscuits before he’s all engrossed in his tablet and ignoring her.

She has half a mind to make some pouty face to get his attention but it seems to close to something Cayde would do and she therefore removes it from her list of options. Instead she leans down into his face, over his desk. “What’s gotten into you? You’re never weird like this.”

“Nothing, Hawthorne.”

“Huh,” She says flatly, withdrawing. “Fine, Commander.” She turns around and stalks back to the worktable in his office, where she’s been pouring over the Farm’s new budget and corresponding expense reports like she has some clue what she’s doing - maybe she does, she’s not sure yet (still?) - and throws herself down into her usual chair to get back to it. She’s silent for an eerily long time, posture stiff and still.

It’s a testament to how distracted he is that he does not notice, because nearly an hour later, she’s glancing over at him, biting her lip nervously. She’s gotten absolutely nothing accomplished since she sat down.

“I’m sorry.”

It takes him a second to look up at her, he’s reading the last few lines of a report from the Owl Sector. “What?”

“I’m sorry. Whatever I did. I didn’t mean to make you angry.” She pauses, tapping her index finger on the top of the worktable in a tiny anxious motion. “I didn’t… do something stupid at dinner, did I? I swear I didn't mean to drink so much. Did I make you look bad? Er… Saladin doesn’t hate me or something, does he?”

“Wait, wait.” His brows furrow and he shakes his head like he’s got something flying around his ear. “I was reading this.” He sets the report down. “What are you talking about? I’m not angry with you.”

“You called me Hawthorne.”

He does not appear concerned. “That is your name.”

“You haven’t called me Hawthorne outside of a Consensus meeting in… I don’t know, at least a month or two? It sounds so cold and formal.”

He sighs. “So that means I am angry with you?”

“You’re acting really distant,” She confesses, looking upset. “I don’t want to stress you out. I should - maybe I should just go.” She starts packing up her things. Her head is down, and her eyes are focused on the table, and not the Titan Vanguard who is blinking at her rather confusedly.

All this over a name? If he’s honest with himself, he wasn’t really paying attention when he called her by surname, he didn’t mean anything at all by it and was only trying to keep her from finding out about his rather vivid dream the night before. It still lingers in the forefront of his mind. She caught him off guard by trying to talk of her own. His behavior has clearly put her off, though, so he tries to remedy the situation. “Is it that important that I call you by your given name?”

She blinks at him, as if he’s asked a question with an obvious answer. “Call me what you will,” She mumbles, stubborn and put off by his reaction. She wills her cheeks to stay their natural color and not flush with embarrassment.

He’s not a stupid man. “Suraya…” She’s easy to read, what with the bite of her lip and her wide, deep brown eyes. Or maybe, she’s just not nearly as guarded in his presence as she used to be. That’s also a possibility. “Talk to me.”

A sigh. “I just… It’s dumb, really. Forget I said anything. You’re not mad, I’m not mad, everything is fine.” She’s ready to ramble her way to the door, but he’s blocking her way. “I need to take a-”

Wide eyes look up just slightly to meet his thundering blue ones. One elegant arch of an eyebrow has her taking a step back.

“You’d prefer it if I called you Suraya all the time, yes?” She looks sheepish. He lowers his chin, as if trying to seem less threatening about it. Part of him is driven by curiosity, but it’s not just a search for the truth now. He’s fishing for information on her feelings for him. He presses on, aware it’s going to backfire anyway, ignoring the warning signs. Foolish, his rational brain chastises as his lips move, asking, “Why?”

“That’s my name, isn’t it?” It is, but he’s not convinced. The other brow rises to match its twin. She scoffs and alarm bells go off in his head. “Fine. You started calling me Suraya more after we took back the City and I... like it, okay? It’s… nice, being close with someone for once and I don’t want it to change back to how it was!”

It seems she’s hit her emotional peak for the day, because she sidesteps him immediately afterward and all but runs out of his office. He feels like a real jerk. Even if he hadn’t meant anything by what he’d said to upset her in the first place, he shouldn’t have pushed her. He knew what he was doing. It was selfish and unlike him. That dream really messed him up. Perhaps some time alone - meditating, Ikora encouraged him to do so more often - would be helpful in recentering his feelings.

Besides, he knows for fact that he can’t give chase to her now. She’ll come back when she’s ready, when she’s stopped feeling like she’s going to keel over from embarrassment that she shouldn’t have. There’s nothing wrong with them being close, he’s certain he’s told her that before. He just needs to keep himself in check and let her come to him. And then… not ruin his chances?

No. She values his friendship. It’s not her fault he has feelings for her. He needs to get a grip.

-/

Suraya knows she's always been a master at hiding in the open. It's chilly and snowy atop the Tower, and the smell of the log fires and torches beside the solar-light lit gong(she thinks that it might have been one at some time, it's certainly shaped like one), make the cold crisp air smell like campfire and wilds instead of jet fuel and smog.

It smells amazing.

Like a moth to a flame, she's drawn out of the Courtyard and toward Lord Saladin's designated area. The air is colder leading up to his area, the wind fierce, but the fires take the bite out of the air.

The eyes of the Iron Lord slide over her after she'd found a place to perch herself near his post. She knew it was him when felt the pointed, stoic gaze like icy water down her back as she gazed out at the darkening sky to the east, the sun setting behind her. Stars began to glimmer against pale blue that faded into lavender and then an inky blue violet.

It's a while before he approaches her. She's silent and still for once, gazing out at the sweep of snow-capped mountains while her mind replays her earlier conversation, that of the night before, at dinner, and she finds herself more confused than ever. What did she do? Why was he acting like this?

The crunch of boots behind her isn't unexpected.

“What brings you up here?” He asks quietly, never needing to speak loudly to be heard. “Certainly you didn't enjoy my company so much the other night that you're waiting for me.”

She cracks a little smile before her lips thin again. “Needed a place to think,” She says, before casting her eyes back to the twilight sky. “Smell of the fire reminds me of out there.”

The woman doesn't gesture but he knows what she means. She is a woman of the wilds, he knows, and the wilds are a part of her. “I can imagine this can be a bit… oppressive.” He too does not gesture as he steps around her and braces his forearms on the railing. “Something on your mind?”

Yes, there is, she thinks. But he is not the one to discuss it with. He's looking at her expectantly. She's certain he's not budging until he gets an answer.

Eventually, she shrugs. “Nothing crazy.” A sigh tells him otherwise. Something has upset her.

“Ah.” He is not close enough to her to pry. “Nothing worth standing in the cold all night, then.” When she looks at him, one corner of his lips pull up. Not a smile, but something amused. “I see why Zavala likes you. You're two of a kind.”

She hopes she hasn't given away the subject of her concern with a quirk of her brow or a quicker breath. She's sure he would know in an instant.

He does. He sees her tense up when he refers to his student. She corrects quickly enough that the average person wouldn't have noticed. Lord Saladin is not the average person, though. He suspects her curiosity will win out over whatever is troubling her.

“What makes you say that?”

A large fist comes to cover his mouth as he grins. He was right, he thinks with a rumbling chuckle. “You think things through. You are both passionate and compassionate. You do not let your power go to your head.”

Clearly she does not take praise well, either. “Oh, uh, thanks.” She rubs the back of her head through her hood and gives him a nervous smile. He still sees her unease.

“He does not typically keep people so close. Care for them, yes. Abundantly, without concern for his own well-being. He bears his duty with honor, and sometimes forgets that there is more to life than his duty.” Saladin's smirks. “Or, more aptly, that it is possible to fulfill one's duty and live fully at the same time.” The rise of his eyebrows insinuates something that makes her flush.

“Why are you telling me this?” Her heart is racing like she’s done something wrong, but maybe this man is seeing right through her. For all she knows, he can. Guardians have some pretty ridiculous innate abilities, she thinks as she pushes the question out before she’s too afraid to ask. This is making her almost as uncomfortable as Zavala's uncharacteristic pushing earlier.

This time, he doesn't hide his grin. “Sometimes Zavala needs a person to meddle in his best interest. I know a good match when I see one.”

“I don't think so, Saladin,” She grounds out, keeping her voice low. “There's no way.” But, in her head, the cogs that have been turning continue to do so just a little bit faster. She's come to terms with her feelings. And, the whys and hows that make them impossible to realize. It doesn't change her feelings, but it does make her try to damper them, when she can. It’s something she failed at earlier, clearly.

Saladin looks out at the sky, “Perhaps not. But, maybe there is. Think on it. You’re good for each other.”

Think on it. Bah. She’s thought it through many a time. She will not make herself an important person in his life, like a romantic partner for instance, only to go off dying two blinks later in his timeline. How terrible of a person would she be to do that to someone who feels every loss of life in battle as if it were a member of his own family?

Zavala might be used to loss, but she does not want to hurt him. Not like that. Not ever. Not even if he loves her back, not that she dares to think that for even a second. Friends. They are friends, she drills into her head.

She really must be transparent, though, because Saladin sighs and says, “Better to love and lose than not love at all. I would know.”

Her brows furrow in surprise and she looks at him, expression unguarded. “You loved a mortal? You?”

“No,” He says, and his tone is curt and rough, like shards of broken glass. “But just because we have our Light does not mean we Guardians live forever. We can be killed all the same.” He claps her on the shoulder. “At the very least, promise me you’ll think about it.”

“What makes you think I have feelings for him?” She blinks in an attempt to be coy. “We’re friends.”

He shakes his head and smirks at her antics, eyes narrowing. It's clear he doesn't believe her. “I’m sure you are. Call it a hunch.”

On her walk back to her apartment, she sees the remnants of a full moon and can’t help but shake her head. Not that she’s incredibly superstitious, but it would help explain why everyone is so damn crazy today. It’s enough to make her switch off her handheld and go to bed early, beyond ready for a fresh start. She resolves not to tell anyone about her dreams tomorrow if she has any, as she lays awake and overthinks.


	7. Chapter 7

He’s only sent her one message all day, his usual conversation-starter greeting. It’s formal and without shorthand, like all of his messages. She’s ignored it, having nothing to say to him. He owes her an apology for being so freaking pushy yesterday and she's holding him accountable. That's what she decided. It was really unsettling. She knew he was trying to get a reaction out of her, she’d laid awake long enough last night thinking about it.

Which only made her think more about what Lord Saladin had said to her.

For every reason not to, she can think of two reasons she wants to anyway. Even if she’ll never be the perfect partner - the immortal, fellow guardian he deserves, she’d give him everything she possibly could. She will, regardless of some ridiculous relationship status or intimacy of a more sexual nature. She’ll settle for being friends. Companions. She enjoys his company, the word works well. Companions, she affirms. It has to be enough. Something more than friends, but not quite fairy-tale ending-y. She's not exactly a princess, and he's certainly more soldier than prince.

Ugh, Suraya thinks to herself. She has it so bad. Although, it could be worse. It could be Cayde she had feelings for.

The thought leaves her laughing to herself, kind of amused. She is picky, has high standards for a reason. She doesn't regret that, not even a little. She sets the bar high, she feels.

Of course, when she packs it in for the day, she's not expecting to see the Vanguard Commander heading into the Bazaar. She wonders briefly if he's got spies watching her, but realizes that this is the usual time she calls it quits most days. He's just attentive and she's gotten predictable. Damn it all. This city is making her soft.

She plans on passing him by, all prim and cool and collected. They're not having any discussion about whatever he may or may not need until he says sorry. And she will not be advertising their business to the chatty officers and eavesdropping Guardians mulling about.

She's about to duck into the stairwell that leads down when Ikora notices Zavala's presence. Like a cosmic intervention, the Warlock calls out to him to come over and discuss something with her. Suraya sees his gaze trail up to her landing and turns her head away to avoid making eye contact. Looks like she's in luck. Also, if he wasn't coming to make peace with her and was looking for Ikora instead, that kind of pisses her off.

Regardless, she waits until Ikora's got him fully engrossed in a conversation about Hive runes before she descends from her little landing and all but bolts across the Bazaar.

There’s quiet music and the soft babble of a boiling kettle in her cozy little apartment by the time the soft rap of his knocks - she wonders if he knows he knocks a certain way - breaks up the relaxed vibe she’s going for. She glances through the little lens designed for privacy and sees mostly the blue skin of his face, two glowing bright eyes attempting to make eye contact with her through the peep-hole.

Whatever. She unlocks the door loudly enough for his delicate ears to hear and turns away from the door to go back to preparing her tea. Herbal tea, she decides, looking at several jars lined up unassuming-like on the counter. She needs something soothing for this impending conversation.

Suraya is wrapping her fingers around the mug when he finally breaks decorum and lets himself in. She’s sure he warred with himself over it for a bit before finally caving and allowing himself to enter her abode. Against her better judgement (this City really makes her soft, she tells herself), she sets down her mug and pulls another out of the cupboard for him.

She sets to making it how he likes, just a touch of sugar to take the bite out of the more earthy notes of the tea. He lingers in the doorway to her kitchen, looking woefully out of place in full armor while she wears lounge pants and a loose white shirt. She can feel his unease radiating in waves, see it in the glow of lights under his skin.

Part of her hates liking him so much because she’s upset that he’s upset more than she’s upset that he pushed her to begin with. Really, she should have rights to be a bitch, but here she is, making the man tea like it’s routine.

She holds the mug out to him and he takes it, careful not to make eye contact for too long. “I’m sorry,” He says, when the weight of the mug and its warmth settle between large blue palms. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” A turn of her lips down indicates that she agrees. “Thank you,” She replies. When she moves into her living room, she casts a glance over her shoulder. “Get your Ghost to help you out of your armor? I’m not sharing my couch with a tin man if I can help it.”

The chuckle is low and wistful. “Fair.” The deed is done quickly and without fanfare, leaving him to methodically remove his boots before joining her with his now perfect temperature tea on the small couch.

Her sock-clad feet press into the meat of his thigh as she regards his profile from the side. Traveler, is he sturdy. He clears his throat, and she almost thinks about pulling her feet away, but she realizes it’s because he has something to say.

“I want to call you Suraya,” He says softly. It’s almost a rumble that doesn’t quite make it to his normal tone of voice. “Unless decorum requires formality-”

“Yeah.” She interrupts, trying to spare him and stay the flush in her cheeks. “Works for me. I trust your judgement.”

He nods, looking down at his mug and then back toward her. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” He continues. “I don’t want you to get the impression that I am trying to push you away. You’re… important to me.”

She smiles. “I know.” She nudges him with both feet. Her eyes meet his. Friends, Suraya. Friends only. She chooses to adopt a teasing, playful demeanor rather than express feelings that will only complicate things. He’s… ugh, she can’t go there with his stupid handsome face looking at her so expectantly. She’s not about to wax poetic over it all. “That’s why you’re going to spend the evening with me eating comfort food and helping me work on this budget for the Farm.”

He laughs. “Is it now?”

She nods. “Obviously. That’s what best friends do.” Best friends, she berates herself. What a joke. If only he knew. And then, “Unless you have-”

“I do not. Budgets and comfort food sound rather appealing to me.”

They’re both grateful for the distraction. The debate on priority items for the refugee territory helps them loosen up, the food is good and sits heavy and warm in their bellies, and by the end of the night they’re back to feeling comfortable in each others’ presence. Not to mention, the Farm’s budget is absurdly detailed, thoroughly revamped, and ready for approval.

They’re a good team. Now if only they weren’t so concerned about why they shouldn’t be in love with each other.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a rare day that sees Zavala visibly burdened by the other parties within the Consensus. He always, without a shadow of a doubt, remains stoic yet interested; Firm, yet fair. The Farm’s proposed budget revisions pass easily to Suraya’s delight, but that’s the only item that’s gone smoothly.

The factions are greedy - any advancement for their competitors creates a disadvantage for themselves - and want Zavala’s unanimous support for their efforts and thus the backing of the Vanguard. Ikora and Cayde are mostly disinterested and follow his lead unless something gives them a bad vibe - both have their own motives and initiatives that they pursue outside of this theatre. Their presence is more for the sake of solidarity.

Reconstruction is always a battle. Everyone wants their primary operating district rebuilt faster, and none of them want to rely on their own resources to do so. It becomes a pissing match, which turns into a bitch-fest about the faction rallies beginning next week and progresses into a free-for-all that even Zavala’s polite throat clearing and pointed redirection cannot abate.

Cayde finally whistles like it's some backwoods brawl he's breaking up - not a government meeting. Even knowing the Exo for as long as hse has, it's still a weird experience seeing a man with a metal mouth whistle. The puzzled looks around the room tells her that others think the same.

“You know,” Hawthorne says to the three faction leaders, “If you really need assistance, you could try recruiting some of the clans.”

When Hideo and Jalal start snipping at her instead of each other, she holds up a hand. Lakshimi looks bored, but Suraya thinks that just might be her baseline facial expression.

“You do realize that just because there are clans against the factions that it doesn't mean they're all against you, right? Most of the civilians are aligned by common goals. If those goals line up with your Tenants or what have you, they'll probably join up or at the least, consider some contract work. I mean, most of the Guardians are in a clan, but they're still talking about what faction they plan to support for the rally.” A quirk of her lips almost gives away her smile at their re-evaluating expressions.

When they start discussing(not yelling) amongst themselves, she leans back, satisfied. Ikora nods to her. Cayde is back to playing with his tablet. Zavala is listening in to the faction leaders’ discussion, but takes a second to give her a proud half-smile that's uncharacteristic of him in such a public venue.

It's not often she feels so confident in her decisions. She makes them in what she thinks is the public's best interest, but she's usually trying to read the faces of those in the room to see if she needs to change something on the fly. The fact that she didn't look to anyone for assistance, trusted her own instincts on this (albeit minor) political play makes her feel amazing.

Also, she stopped the faction leaders from fighting. Her. Their - okay, she's exaggerating here, with the exception of one jerkoff Executor - enemy, in a roundabout way. Still, she's proud of herself, and that's even without the little tug in her belly from the silent praise of the Commander in Chief of the meeting.

They get out late, and though she's had a small breakthrough and even promised to work with the faction leaders to put them in touch with clans she thinks will work with them, she can see the subtle dip of Zavala’s shoulders, heavy with unease. She knows the competition of the faction rally, now only a few days away, will put the slight productive discussion they had on the back burner.

He needs to do something to take his mind off of it. There's nothing he can do now. If they're going to behave like children, he cannot stop them. At least the Guardians will benefit with new gear and weapons, if nothing else.

Hideo, as always, stays behind to speak in his usual reverent whisper to Zavala. Once he leaves, the Titan goes about collecting his tablet and any hard copies of files he's brought along. She slips back into the room once he's alone.

“So, everybody's really in the Dawning spirit, huh,” She deadpans.

He looks up at her, clearly not as appreciative of her humor as she'd hoped. “Remind me not to have Iron Banner and the Faction Rally at the same time next year.”

Oh. He's getting it from all sides. It's not just the factions. It's Shaxx and Saladin, too, she realizes. He's always had the misfortune of being caught in the middle of most squabbles, from what she's heard of his time as Commander. Even before. He's big on avoiding conflict and settling things peacefully. Where possible, of course. Explains the subtle curl of his shoulder, the bogged down look she recognizes plainly after spending so much time with him. She wonders what his Fireteam thinks, if he brings it upon himself or what.

“Will do.” Armed with this realization she knows what she has to do. She pulls the tablet from his hands, gently enough that he could stop her without much effort. He doesn't.

“I know,” He intones bemusedly when she sets it aside, switching gears back to his usual doting persona, “You're hungry. Where are we going for lunch? I'm sure you have plenty of questions.”

She laughs. It actually wasn't her intention - she’s trying to take care of him here - but she could definitely eat. There's a shrug. “I’ll let you decide. By the way, what does your schedule look like for the rest of the day?”

He shakes his head, almost disbelievingly. “Believe it or not, we managed to finish early. I just have some paperwork to catch up on.”

“You mean, paperwork you're ahead on. Zavala, please. I know how you are.” Suraya rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “Sounds like you're free for the rest of the day. Up for some decorating? They're hanging lanterns tonight down in one of the districts and I got roped into helping.” And, quieter, she says, when he's contemplating it, “No politics or armor allowed. Might be a nice little break.”

It'd be good for him. He doesn't exactly get out much, and almost all he talks about is work. Might be good to get out there and see what he's working for. A little community service never hurt anybody.

“Perhaps I'll go change.”

-/

It's weird making house calls with him. She's always done this, even when she was living outside the City. Certainly she didn't make it every year, but when she did, she'd always helped some of the more impoverished areas with decorating and supplies. This year, they weren't even stolen, either.

Zavala is strangely shy, even though his body language says he is calm and confident. His voice is low and smooth - he's never needed to speak loudly to be heard, and he's absurdly humble when the citizens praise him. Respectful, always, and dare she say it, charming. This may be her stage, her area of expertise, but people are positively drawn to him.

He takes her instructions well, which is a bit of a role reversal. She supposes it makes sense though, because he’s in her theatre instead of the usual opposite. They start at opposite ends of the streets, stringing lanterns with ease. It isn’t a difficult task once the correct number of lanterns has been allotted. As they work inward, a handful of people come out and speak to them both. Plenty of others come to help, and it becomes a large community effort.

Hawthorne is used to taking initiative in this way, starting a small movement and letting herself get caught up in the experience. While the adults decorate above, children bob and weave through the streets, all bundled up for the chilly weather as they engage in snowball fights and make snow angels in the couple inches of snow on untrafficed streets.

Inevitably, they get separated, each finding themselves the impromptu leader of a group of decorators. They divide and conquer, and the decorating goes smoothly, quickly tackled within the span of a few hours. By the time the sun sinks below the wall, the lanterns are lit in the fading light, casting a warm glow on the streets. It’s hard not to be a little giddy in light of the upcoming Dawning.

When he finds her again, she’s surrounded by a group of children. It’s a strange sight, though not an unpleasant one. She’s smiling, unguardedly so, and engaging in conversation with the littlest members of their society, all of whose screeching he can hear from far away. It floors him, sometimes, just how much of an impression she makes on seemingly everyone she comes in contact with.

When she sees him and waves, most of them scatter, hollering and playing on. The smallest among them stands beside her, looking up at Suraya, biting her tiny lip and looking nervous.

Suraya drops swiftly to a knee and holds out her arms. The girl all but tackles her in a bear hug and they rise together, as she situates the child on her left hip. She’s small for her age, common in these poorer areas, especially with the war just recently behind them. The girl pushes her head into the juncture of Suraya’s shoulder and neck, and Zavala furrows his brow as she totes the girl toward him, his eyes lit up in a silent question. The Clan Steward fixes him with a warm look and tilts her head to speak to the little girl before she picks her head up and looks to Suraya with a serious nod.

Zavala stops walking toward them a few steps away. Suraya nods at him, eyes communicating silently with him before she sets the little girl down beside her, in front of him.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” She says, gently. The little girl beams up at him, all dark hair and bright eyes. “This is Adara.”

Suraya takes a step back as Zavala crouches and extends a very large hand to meet her small one in a delicate handshake.

“Nice to meet’cha, Commander,” Adara says quietly, wide eyes shyly meeting his. Her little body is practically vibrating with excitement or nerves, and he’s not sure which it is.

“The pleasure is mine,” He replies in the most soothing rumble he’s capable of. He’s always been good with children, soft spoken enough to coax the shyest into speech but stern enough to redirect the unruly. “Are you excited for the Dawning?”

She nods, short brown hair bobbing with her. “Yeah! I’m makin’ my mama a scarf!” She exclaims happily, before ducking her head as though she’s just revealed a great secret.

“I’m sure she’ll love it,” He says, and he knows it to be the truth.

At that, she shifts her weight back and forth anxiously. “My brothers said I’m stupid fer tryin’ to make her one.” The Commander frowns. “They made fun’a me and said crochet’s for babies,”She rambles. “S’rya tol’ me that’s not true, but that I shoul’ talk to you. She said you crochet,” The girl looks up at him for confirmation that he gives with a small dip of his chin, “An’ that you’re the toughest, smartest, most bravest person she knows.”

Over her shoulder, he looks up at Suraya, who shrugs as if she’s never heard anything like that before. The gentle pull of her lips into a smile she can't help and the softness of her eyes say something else, though. Something sincere. It’s an incredible warmth, something far different from the light that dwells inside him, that’s tethered to his soul and his Ghost in equal measure. Incomparable. Brighter.

He gazes back down to the little girl and smiles. “The art of Crochet is certainly not for everyone, Adara. It is complicated, requiring both attention and skill. Your siblings are likely unable to achieve the correct form.” He’s not sure of the child’s vocabulary - or age, they all look so young, and he is so very old by comparison - so he simply offers, “If you are able to retrieve your work, I would be happy to look it over.”

“Really?” She’s flabbergasted, little eyes even wider, if that’s possible.

“Really.” He nods resolutely. She hugs him so quick she’s practically a blur in his fine-tuned vision before she runs off in the direction of her home.

Adara comes back not two minutes later with three of her brothers in tow and what appears to be the beginnings of a dark maroon scarf. The three boys pale at the sight of the Vanguard Commander and his singular quirked eyebrow while their younger sister smiles victoriously, drawing attention to missing baby teeth. Suraya turns her head in the direction of the girl chattering animatedly to the Commander while he evaluates her fledgling work, any maternal instinct she has flaring at the sight. It’s rather adorable if she says so herself.

“Don’t interrupt,” She warns the boys behind her, when one of them takes a tentative step in the direction of the knitting duo. Her gaze back at them is stern when they giggle, as if she’s told a joke. “Be nicer to your sister.”

They slink away well before Zavala is finished with his littlest pupil and biggest fan.

-/

It’s late by the time they get back to the Tower. Much of their walk back is spent in companionable silence, admiring the lights and decorating that’s slowly overtaking the Last City. It’s beautiful and quiet, peaceful and serene for once. The Traveler casts its own ethereal glow like a full moon over cobblestone streets. The ambiance is romantic, not that either of them will admit it.

“I’m glad you came with,” Suraya murmurs, not looking at him as they approach her door.

He tilts his head to look at her. She doesn’t meet his gaze, dark eyes focusing straight ahead. He rumbles, “I am, as well. It was… refreshing.”

That makes her smile. “Glad to hear.” Her boots scuff against the road. “The citizens admire you. I know you absolutely made their day, just spending some time with them. They’ll be talking about it for weeks. And Adara was so thrilled she finally got to meet you.”

“Finally?” His eyes narrow, and she finally turns to face him.

“Her father is in one of my clans. The one I told you about, all the fathers protecting their families?” She stops to explain and he nods, remembering. “I had to drop off some bounty info for them a couple weeks ago, and that’s when I heard her brothers being little jerks.”

“So that’s when you-”

“ Yeah.”

He seems satisfied. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“What you told her.”

“I told her the truth.” Her smile is that same soft, unguarded one from earlier. The one that inspires such bittersweet hope inside his heart. “That’s nothing you need to thank me for.”

His chest aches. It physically aches. He closes his eyes and inhales once, attempting to get his emotions under control. Before he can open them again, she loops her arms around his neck and hugs him. He almost gasps at the contact, her lithe, lean body flush against him, head pressed against his collarbone.

“Goodnight, Zavala,” She tilts her head up to whisper directly in his ear. His arms wrap around her, his head bowing to her shoulder as he holds her tight. Just for a moment. Just one.

It’s over far too quickly, and she pulls away to let herself inside.

“Goodnight.” It’s barely a whisper, and yet it’s like a spark, filled with warm emotion.

When the door is closed and locked behind her, he looks up in the direction of his own flat, down at the other end of the corridor. But, more than that, he sees his mentor, Lord Saladin, standing about halfway between him and his door, still dressed in full armor. Zavala sighs. Of all the people to see this display of-

“I know that look,” Saladin says to his student, interrupting his thoughts.

“What look?”

This is not the discussion he wants to have with the Iron Lord, this man who - aside from Shaxx - has known him longest. Not right now, not when he’s feeling raw and open. He knows they can’t. He doesn’t want to hear it from someone else right now.

“That’s exactly how I looked at Jolder.” His normally serious face crinkles around the edges, the light in his eyes brighter for just a second. He puts an arm around Zavala’s shoulders and steers him away from the path leading to his flat and back toward the open air. It makes Zavala feel centuries younger, much greener and far less sure of himself. Especially considering Saladin’s openness on the subject. The whole of it really took Zavala back.

“We don’t get to pick.” They step out onto the empty Tower, the few patrolling officers making themselves scarce. “Love doesn’t care about Light or age, any of it.” He laughs, hearty and sad. “No. It’s not convenient, and it’s not easy. But it’s worth fighting for.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“On the contrary. The reasons you think you shouldn’t are precisely why you should.” There’s something knowing in the Iron Lord’s gaze. “Do you think it easy loving Jolder?” Zavala doesn’t miss Saladin’s tense.  _Loving._  Not  _loved_. "She was something else. Saw me as more than a Risen. More than an Iron Lord. Saw this.” He puts a fist over his heart. “Knew me better than I did, maybe better than I ever will. Knew if she hadn’t-” He closes his eyes, unable to carry on in that vein. “If you love that woman, do not waste the time you get. Tomorrow is never promised. Not even to us.”

Zavala looks up at the Traveler as Lord Saladin leaves him to think, not for the first time wishing he had the answers. He knows she’s worth it, knows his heart’s has made its choice. Could it truly be that simple?


	9. Chapter 9

Suraya is clearly unprepared for the Dawning. Always one to fly under the radar, never the center of attention, the amount of gifts and cards awaiting her at the postmaster - even though it is far less than someone like Cayde’s haul by comparison - is overwhelming. She’s always been reluctant to accept any gift - part of it a lack of self worth on her part, perhaps, but also the belief that the thought put into considering her was a gift of itself.

It was only Zavala, coming up behind her to take one of the two overflowing boxes of cards and gifts: a gesture that prevents her from walking away entirely to wrap her brain around the development.

“You do realize that this is customary?” He asks her plainly. His lips are drawn tight, but his eyes have that not-smile that she’s come to realize as one without other indication of his mood. “The first day is normally the worst. Kadi collects them throughout the week before the Dawning and gives them to everyone all at once.”

She sighs. “It’s… a lot.”

“It’s deserved,” He rephrases for her. “Come. I retrieved mine earlier. Perhaps we’ll go through them together later? I have a meeting regarding expenditures this afternoon, and strikes after, but I am certain we can find some time.”

“Perhaps,” She says, with a pop of her lips on the first consonant. He leads her to his office and places the box down on the opposite side of his work table than the one she uses, indicating for her to do the same. Her usual side of the oak table is instead stacked with four boxes, three cartons clearly from the postmaster, and the other a box wrapped in red and gold with a gaudy bow. Obviously Hideo’s doing.

When she snorts at the box, he puts a hand on her head, over her hood. “As obnoxious you feel he is, he means well.”

She shakes her head, the movement forcing his hand to swivel. “Sure, he certainly doesn’t have any other motivations. Aren’t you the one who told me to always think five steps ahead of your allies as well as your enemies?” She scoffs at the box as if to prove a point. “Don't expect anything near as flashy as that from me.”

He laughs. “I expect nothing at all, Suraya.” The hand on her head is withdrawn, and she turns away from the gifts and toward him. “Your company is enough.”

That makes her smile. “Aren’t you mister charming,” She says, with a rueful tone. “Guess I’ll just keep the gift I got you for myself then.”

She skirts around him and he immediately follows. “Suraya, you absolutely should not-”

“... Get you a gift, yeah, yeah. Technically, if I’m keeping it, I didn’t.” Her eyes are alight with something playful.

He stares at her back until she turns. “So…”

She sees through his game. He's not nearly as curious by nature as Ikora but he absolutely wants to know. “I’m not telling you what it is. Just in case I decide to give it to you, anyway.” Her face splits into a smile full of mirth and her eyes light up with that warm something he doesn’t dare name. “Call me later, okay? Even if you’re busy. I’ll drop off dinner.”

He nods. “Have a good afternoon.”

“You too, Commander.” The quirk of her lips over his title - lightheartedly, of course - is such a large contrast from how they used to rail at each other. It feels like another life - a different person’s life, perhaps. Sometimes he cannot believe how far they’ve come. The thought keeps him pleasantly afloat through his taxing afternoon.

-/

He is in the middle of attempting to figure out what happened to a Fireteam that's gone radio silent on Nessus when his tablet chimes. The priority is his Fireteam, and even if it's just the uneasy AI's meddling, he cannot focus on anything else until he is certain they are safe.

He ignores the message, and the several that follow.

-/

When he checks his messages three hours later, the Fireteam safe and their target neutralized, he realizes he's shut out far more than a singular message. He's missed quite a bit.

The most pressing of them comes from Ikora who rarely flags her messages as urgent without good reason. Her first indicates that there are hostiles moving on the Farm and four Fireteams of six have been dispatched at Hawthorne's request. She’d requested two teams, but the Farm's com-system went down moments later and it was clear that things were getting out of hand. Ikora’s second message instructed him to join her in Command once he finished his strike.

Of course, at that, he scrolls to see the Clan Steward's previous messages. Only one, Suraya detailing that she'd been called to the Farm by Devrim for a small emergency and planned to be back by the following morning. Also, that she'd need a rain-check for their evening plans.

He attempted a message back, asking for an update. It failed immediately. He should have known, but he hoped perhaps the situation had been rectified in the last hour or so since Ikora requested him.

His gut churned. Something told him it was going to be a long night.

-/

Everything was blanketed in thick, dark smoke billowing from the remnants of one of the large barns. The Fallen had chosen to be exceptionally ruthless. They'd strategically targeted a barn in the center of several smaller buildings housing supplies, triage bays and smaller vehicles. The barn itself had been converted into a more efficient hangar than the one she'd spent most of her time hanging around in during the war.

Jet fuel had also been stored in the barn.

So, when everything exploded, it EXPLODED.

The Fallen had then capitalized on the madness to rob the other resource-rich areas of the human settlement with everyone trying to salvage the ruins of their initial assault.

The loss of resources was significant.

The loss of life? Staggering.

An unofficial count, at present, estimated at least two hundred eighty injured, and the dead numbered at one hundred twenty three on top of that. It didn't include the minor injuries and burns suffered by the militia and FOTC, or the exact number of workers in the barn at the time of the explosion. They’d never recover all the bodies. The fuel burned too hot to leave remains.

The Farm itself was in ruin. Many of the buildings near the initial explosion were damaged by residual fires and thereby structurally unsafe. More people were without shelter and the temperatures in Trostland this time of year were below freezing.

It had taken twenty-nine hours to get the fire under control. It was still burning. During that time, Hawthorne had dispatched two teams to retrieve whatever supplies they could from the Fallen, who were clearly maintaining a camp somewhere in the area. The other two teams did everything they could to mind the perimeter with the civilian forces.

When an emergency relay had been re-established between the Tower and the Farm the second evening, Devrim - who had returned to fight for their secondary stronghold as well - had insisted that Suraya go back to the City. It was pointless for her to stay with things in hand. The Farm would need her to represent them: to requisition and arrange for further assistance or progress the assimilation process back to the City for the Farm’s denizens, since there was even less room for the overwhelming populous of refugees now than ever before.

When she landed back in the City on the Tower’s primary landing pad, there was an outcropping of clan support in the massive hangar arranging an array of supplies for delivery to the Farm. Guardians and Civilians working in tandem to make sure that each and every ship out carried as much as possible. None of it was officially sanctioned, but her people were good to their very core. Whatever they could give, they would.

She thanked them quietly - her voice was barely more than a rasp from smoke inhalation and non-stop barking orders - and continued toward the main operating area of the Tower. She was certain she looked like a hot mess, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed, and reeking of jet fuel, burnt flesh and soot. But duty called. Certainly they'd want a sitrep.

She’d barely made it out into the evening air before Saladin and Zavala were both upon her. Saladin looked grave and remorseful - remorse was something he always seemed to carry in his posture, grief always a heartbeat just out of sight. Zavala was tense - strung like a bowstring, eyes darting up and down, seemingly scanning her head to toe.

 

“You are unharmed?” Saladin asks quietly when she rocks back on her heels, uneasy under the two sets of fierce, appraising Titan eyes.

“Minor injuries. Nothing pressing.” She was certain he was citing the rather brilliant bruise just above her temple that faded into her hairline. It was an indigo-violet color that matched the circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her eyes canted to Zavala. “We should go to command and discuss what we’re-”

“I’m taking you home,” Zavala interrupts. “Four more teams are enroute to the Farm. Ikora and Cayde will be managing things overnight. The initial threat has been dispatched, their leader neutralized by our insurgents. Devrim is going to check in with us tomorrow morning. He updated us an hour ago, no major changes. You,” His eyes are pointed, serious as they rake over her, “Need to rest.”

She’s surprised by the serious edge in his voice. He’s not suggesting, he’s telling her what she’s doing. It’s just what she needs even if she didn’t know it until this exact moment, after days of calling the shots and managing an absolutely devastating situation.

“Oh, okay,” She relents, though she’s not got it in her to do much more fighting. She’s positively exhausted: just wants a shower and to fall into bed. Maybe have a good cry, she’s not sure just yet. It’s starting to hit her, the adrenaline tapering off. Zavala’s probably got a pretty good point. She’s got a headache the size of the Traveler brewing and she’s hoping to crash pretty hard once she’s got a moment to herself instead of think herself to death all night.

The two men exchange a look that goes over her head, Saladin departing with the barest nod to his student and a gentler half-smile to Suraya that she doesn’t notice, lost in her own thoughts. “Suraya,” The Commander calls to her gently.

It makes her jump. She shakes her head, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “Sorry, sorry. It’s - there’s just a lot-” She trails off and looks away, though he sees the tremble of her lip out of the corner of his eye. Explains why she’s biting it.

He brushes his hand against hers, locking their fingers. “It’s going to be alright.” He squeezes gently.

She squeezes back, hard. He can feel the tremble of her fingers as well. “I know,” She tells him, but he knows she’s lying. He’s seen that lost, despaired look on countless allies and even more enemies. Even on himself, in the mirror, a time or two. Leadership is hard. Harder when you cannot be in every place your people are, all at once.

Zavala notices her get even more flighty with each step they take. She pulls her hand out of his after a moment, not that anyone is around to see such a gesture - not that anyone would say anything about it, considering the circumstances - and crosses her arms in front of herself. She doesn’t say a word as he unlocks his door or ushers her in.

“Shower,” He instructs. She knows where it and his linen pantry is. “I will get you a change of clothes, and make sure Louis is taken care of for the evening.” He's been checking on the independent peregrine for the last few days regardless. “Is there anything else you need?”

Tired eyes blink at him, glossy and muted. With everything, she hadn’t thought of Louis aside from the split-second panic of forgetting that he hadn’t made the trip with her when secondary and tertiary explosions had sent shrapnel into the air. It was far safer, now that she thought about it in hindsight. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back,” He says, and leaves her standing inside his flat alone. She’s not sure if he’s brought her here because the white walls and meticulous clean won’t remind her of the Farm or her neverending pile of responsibilities, or for his own benefit, or what, but she’s glad for it.

By the time she peels off her dirty poncho and half attempts to fold it to place on the bathroom counter, Suraya’s eyes are burning. She purposely doesn’t look at herself in the mirror, afraid of the face that’s going to stare back at her. She knows, knows it isn’t her fault. There wasn’t anything she could have done, whether she was there or not. It didn’t change the number of dead, or the smell of charred flesh that is ingrained in her nostrils, the screams of people burning alive or the way she sees fire and calamity when she closes her eyes.

She steps into the shower, leaving the water icy cold. She doesn’t want to think about hot things, fire. She doesn’t want to think about anything, she thinks futilely as the first tear burns down her face in contrast to the spray.

It doesn’t seem like she’s got much of a choice in the matter.


	10. Chapter 10

He makes it a point to keep himself occupied while she showers and dresses. It's far easier than to listen to her quiet sobs echo over the sound of the shower running (or it would be, if he weren't aware that it was happening).

When she leaves the washroom, dressed in clothes he'd silently swapped out for her dirty ones, her hair hangs down as if she doesn't have the energy to tie it back or braid it like usual. Perhaps she doesn't. Her eyes are dull, a stormy shade of brown that looks like murky water. He sets aside his tablet as she sits beside him on the couch in the pajamas he’d set out for her. He’s already changed into something a bit more relaxed himself: loose cotton pants and a plain shirt, pale white and dark blue to her black and grey.

She drops her head to his lap, curling up tightly in the empty space on the couch, and exhales hotly against his thigh. Her face doesn't look red, but he can see the bruising against her temple, and the puffiness that indicates spilt tears. He would never point it out, but it hurts to see on her.

“You should go to bed,” He says, voice low and soothing.

“I know,” She tells him. “I just-” Her voice cracks, “I'd rather be here right now.” With him. Not alone. She doesn't need to say it. He understands.

His fingers tangle in her hair, combing carefully through thick, damp strands. “As you wish.”

“Thanks,” The whisper comes in reply. Her left hand - he winces at the burns on her knuckles, they look painful - comes to rest on his knee with a gentle squeeze.

He can hear her breaths, raspy and wet, the only sound in the room. “Can I do anything?”

She shakes her head into his leg, curling up and into herself tighter. He feels her lip trembling through the fabric of his sleep pants. It's heartbreaking. He's upset about the loss, too. What happened was devastating. Horrific. Unnecessary. The Fallen would pay. But he's suffered worse - not that it's a numbers game - and has the experience in handling his grief, living with decisions that don't pan out. Not even during the darkest days of the war did the Farm suffer such a catastrophic loss. So, right now, it's about Suraya processing her feelings, learning from this experience and soldiering on. He knows it will cripple her if she does not. He's been there.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Hawthorne shrugs, though it appears more like a little scrunch of the shoulder not wedged between his thigh and the couch cushion.

He brings his palm down over her crown and smooths her hair. “Hungry?”

“No.” She wretched for a while in the shower before he got back, the smell of ichar caked into her skin bothering her, but he doesn't need to know that.

“Up,” Zavala tells her. She props herself up and looks at him, red-rimmed eyes sad. “Come here, he instructs, opening his arms for her to come close.

“Zavala,” She warns, lip curling as her vision hours with tears she's fighting away. His eyes are understanding, sympathetic but not in a way that indicates pity. She knows looking at him will be her undoing. “I don't want to-”

“But you need to,” He says seriously. “You don't have to hold it in. Let me take care of you.” When she opens her mouth to argue, he reaches for her and hauls her up and against him like she's weightless, twisting her so that she's sitting in his lap. It's so easy for her to forget his immense strength, sometimes. “I want to.”

Dark eyes widen as he presses pale lips to her forehead, and his arms encircle her, tight but gentle. Her fingers have found purchase in his shirt, she realizes belatedly. It's soft, contrasting with firm muscle underneath. She exhales shakily. 

He's trying to tell her she's safe, that it's okay to cry, without telling her it's going to be alright. She doesn't want to hear that it's going to be alright. People are dead. Innocent people. People who were wounded fighting for the City, the sick, the elderly. Children, even. None of them deserved it. Nothing will make that alright.

The first sob escapes her without notice, the second, third, fourth bubbling up in shallow, harsh breaths immediately thereafter. Her throat is so sore from smoke and ash, her aching body littered with small abrasions and burns from the necessity of trekking through raging fires to try and save anyone she possibly could.

“It is important to remember these feelings,” He rumbles into her scalp when her trembling, gasping sobs subside into tired tears. “You are an emissary of your people. You reflect them in all that you do. Their pain, their suffering, their joy… you are a testament to their triumphs and their failures. They draw strength from you.”

“Look at me,” She flails at her tear-streaked face with one hand. “I'm not strong at all.”

Zavala hums. “Shall I tell you what I think?”

She turns her head into his chest, shaking her head. He presses his lips against her hair again, unable to help himself. Like all others, he takes his duty to console her seriously.

“You are strong,” The Commander begins quietly, uncaring of her refusal. She'll listen, he knows she will. “Unapologetic, impossibly brave, stubbornly reckless-” She snorts at that, despite herself, and the edges of his eyes crinkle in a half-smile. “You care. You may not think people see it, but they do, Suraya. You are beautiful. Inside and out.”

His calloused fingers slip under her chin and tilt her head up ever so slightly. “These,” He continues, wiping fresh tears out from under her wide eyes, “Do not indicate that you are weak. You are a leader. You make difficult decisions. You carry the weight of your losses, you learn from each and every one of your failures. You are strong because each and every time, you do not say you can’t do it again. You keep moving forward. You are, without question, one of the strongest people I have ever had the pleasure to know.”

She pushes her head into the crook of his neck and her arms come around him in a hug that's almost a force of nature. “Thanks,” She whispers against his skin, tears cool by comparison to her breath on his neck.

He runs a hand up and down her back in response, nursing her through the rest of her body's emotional response in silence, feeling the gradual give of her body as exhaustion rushes in to fill the gaps where tension leaves her body. She is tired. So very, very tired.

“Time for you to go to bed,” He whispers after a time. It could be minutes or hours later. She doesn't know.

“Just leave me here,” The reply comes, in a drowsy mumble. “'ll sleep on the couch.”

There's a chuckle. “Absolutely not.” He certainly didn't usher her to his abode just to leave her on the couch. She can sleep here, in a quieter place than her own that faced the boisterous Bazaar. Suraya's flat, while not horrible by any means, was a bit messy - she'd left in quite a hurry - and he would be more productive if they stayed here and duty called during the night.

They would be having an emergency Consensus meeting tomorrow afternoon. Necessity dictated it. He'd already prepared another change of clothes for Suraya and left a window open for Louis to come and go from her place when he pleased. Honestly, he really needed to get a stand for the bird for his own space. Had needed to for a bit. He'd caught the raptor perched outside his window many a time.

A firm shake of his head recentered his thoughts. “Suraya, you are going to sleep in a bed. You need the rest.”

“What 'bout you?”

Leave it to her to be concerned about him. He stroked the top of her head and she nearly purred as she stretched and resettled against him. Zavala thought it cute - she was rather cute all the time - but something told him she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment.

“I will sleep on the couch.”

“No. This's your place,” She slurs. “I'm okay on the couch.”

“Nonsense.” She blinks open her eyes and looks up at him as he tells her, “You need a good night's rest.”

“...’m good here. Slept in far worse places.” He rises with her in his arms, and she flinches at the sensation of being lifted into the air. “Hey! What are you-”

“Taking you to bed,” He murmurs to her, voice taking on that no-nonsense tone that's low, authoritarian, and mostly a rumble, “So you don't attempt to argue with me all night.”

It isn’t much of an argument, in hindsight. And to be honest, it’s incredibly flattering when he deposits her on the bed and her first inhale comes with the quiet gasp of, “it smells like you,” followed by an immediate calm that settles over her like a blanket. He barely gets a chance to pull the covers over her before she’s asleep, and he doubts she feels the brush of knuckles against her scalp or the selfish kiss he presses to her forehead before he leaves her to rest.

Far easier is it to blame his doting on her fragile emotional state and what she needs, than to blame it on his emotions. He’s been doing a great deal of thinking. About what Saladin said, about how he feels. About what it all means - how much it means. About duty and about honor.

To weigh the duty to his heart - to himself - against that of his duty to the Traveler seems… incomparable. Far too selfish to consider. And yet, those duties align. She is good for the people, the Guardians, even the Traveler. Could it truly be that simple? Certainly Saladin seemed to believe it was. In his heart, in its most selfish recesses, Zavala too wanted to believe he could have her and still carry out his duties uninhibited.

-/

A short while later, the Commander wakes, startled by a sound in the kitchen. Recovering from his initial panic (and mentally reassuring his ghost that all was well), Zavala rose quietly from the couch and peered around the corner at his guest who had her back to the sink and was tipping a tall, slender glass of water against parted lips. She looked sleep mussed, long hair askew, shirt twisted and riding up while her pants hung down, exposing the dark caramel toned skin of her midriff.

“Sorry,” She whispers when he takes a tentative step into the kitchen. He forgets his eyes are like a beacon in the night, even when half lidded. She must have noticed him right away. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine.” He drops into one of the chairs at the small table they never eat at. “How long have you been up?”

“Maybe an hour now?” Suraya shrugs, idly twisting a loose strand of hair. He's never seen her play with her hair before. Must be an anxious tick, easy to cover since her hair is hidden most of the time. “Woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep.”

He frowns.

“Hey,” She tells him, shaking her head with a wry smile. “Not your fault. Even a little shut eye is better than nothing. If I had gone home alone,” She rambles, setting the glass behind her in the sink, “I wouldn't have fallen asleep at all. So thanks. I owe you one.”

His frown deepens. He presses index finger and thumb against his chin, thinking. After a moment, it seems he’s made up his mind. Wordlessly, he stands and grabs her by the wrist. His eyes find hers easily in the dark.

“Would it be fair to reason you might sleep better if I am with you?”

She blushes prettily and looks away, but dips her head in the affirmative. Still too tired to argue, he notes. He almost missed it.

He tugs on her wrist. She complies easily, not fussing as they cross the threshold into the living room. Her head cocks in confusion when he passes the couch entirely.

“What difference does it make if we fall asleep on the couch or in bed?” In a rare show of uncertainty, he pauses, releases her wrist. He's clearly just realized how forward that sounds. “Unless you - I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Suraya puts one hand on the side of his face, effectively silencing him. “I'm okay with it, if you are,” she tells him. They're both adults, capable of making their own decisions. She craves whatever comfort he is willing to give, and he has a point. “I just might keep you awake if I get restless.” She'd woke thrashing around not long ago.

“I'm not concerned,” He replies, and he isn't. Satisfied with his response, she removes her hand from his face and steps around him, heading down the hall toward his bedroom.

It's strange to settle into bed with another person beside him. He can't remember the last time he'd even considered something like this instead of just falling into it. She curls against him, her back flush against his chest, knees pulled up just slightly enough that his notch comfortably into the shape her body makes. He slips his arm over her belly - concerned that he might be too forward (but what would that make all of this) - and her hand slips over his, the tips of her fingers curling over his and holding tight, affirming his choice.

“Okay?” He asks, when she shuffles a little and huffs a soft breath into the pillow under her head.

Suraya hums. “Very okay.” She tips her head back over her shoulder and kisses him chastely on the lips, a little off her mark in her sleepy haze. “Goodnight, Zavala,” She whispers slowly, fading quickly. “Thanks.”

It takes him a moment to recover, heart beating wildly in his chest as she settles and her head returns to a more natural position. “You're welcome, Suraya,” He says, doing his best not to betray his emotions. It feels like the floor has been stolen from underneath him and he's been propelled into space simultaneously. That kiss was barely a touch of lips, he's not even sure if she meant to kiss him there, and yet his insides feel like they're doing a barrel roll. She's tired, he reminds himself. Practically delirious. Don't read into it, he tries to convince himself, and yet, he just doesn't want to. He wants to savor this, even if it's brought out by tragedy. Wants to believe they just might deserve each other, that maybe they can have this. “Anything for you,” He tells her, speaking so quietly into her hair that it’s barely a whisper. It's the truth.


	11. Chapter 11

The morning comes too quickly and brings with it tangled limbs and the creeping anxiety of reality. She's more rested than she'd normally be in a situation like this, but she's still exhausted. Five or so hours of sleep after multiple days awake didn't quite cut it.

It was wonderful, though, waking up with her head pillowed on Zavala's chest, his arms drawn around her and her legs tangled with his while he stroked her hair. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so peacefully (or she could, but it was on her couch and involved him, so clearly there was a common denominator involved). It felt natural, like this was what they'd always done. Not awkward or forced.

Suraya wondered, feeling herself to be a bit selfish for considering it, if they could do this again. Maybe all the time(with obvious exceptions, of course - duty calls). What a far cry from her independent streak, she thought as she realized just how serious what she wanted was.

When they finally remove themselves from bed, the full weight of what had happened between them hits them both. They were blurring the line between friends and more. Did the other see it? They had to know, right?

For fuck's sake, Suraya hoped he got the memo, seeing as she absolutely kissed him last night, stressed to the max and without concern for the consequences. Exhaustion and grief is the only thing that kept it chaste. She'd really like to kiss him, not just touch lips, if she's honest with herself. Seems she's too tired to wrangle her thoughts into something more reserved. It's kind of nice to get honest about it, not push these feelings down and away.

But, she knows, if they're going to do that, if they're going to really cross that line, they need to talk about it. She's knows he knows, understands the life cycle of a human. He does not deserve to have a lover that fades away. She needs to know that she's not simply honoring her selfish desires, but that she's taking his - not that she thinks there's a selfish bone in his body - to heart as well.

Until he decides how he feels on the subject - he seems to be warming up to it, lately, she thinks - Suraya will continue down this path of being grateful for what she gets.

Zavala, for his part, was strangely calm, practically sedate about the whole thing. It felt right, he thought. Like pieces falling into place. His natural routine was hardly disturbed, simply augmented and perhaps even a touch more efficient.

He rose and took to the washroom while she made coffee and dressed, clean from the night before. She was dressed and scrolling through his tablet when he came out, hers sitting on the table in front of her, half melted and cracked, the display very broken. He ignored it, purposefully choosing not to ask. He'd thrown her soiled clothes in a bag for one of the maintenance frames to launder. A standard wash wouldn't remove the atrocities that her usual outfit suffered. He'd gleaned enough details not to ask, but he's positive she'd dealt with some very horrifying things at the Farm.

“Looks like I'll be asking for a new one,” She tells him when he joins her on the couch, picking up the coffee mug waiting in front of him. “I messaged Dev and told him I was alright on yours, he should be sending us an update shortly.”

“Good. We'll get you a new tablet before we go to the emergency Consensus meeting.” He pauses to take a sip of his caffeine, shifting into business. “The Vanguard will make a visit to the Farm in a few days’ time. You'll want to come as well, I'm sure.”

“Yes,” She agrees, dark eyes hard. The bruising on her face was looking a little better, but she still had circles under her eyes. “Absolutely.”

He nods, “So our goal today will be short term aid. Whatever we can secure that the Farm needs, we’ll bring or send immediately. Medical supplies, food, water, clothing at least. You'll have to attend the zoning meeting next week, and we'll present an emergency plan to push forward housing in one of the districts. Reducing civilian numbers at the Farm seems like it’s the best option to help reduce the stress.”

Suraya reaches for his tablet. “That’s kind of what I was thinking.” She pulls up his message history with her and scrolls up a bit to messages from a week ago, pulling up a map she’d sent him. Opening it, she enables a function to outline the areas of the Farm impacted by the Fallen attack. “They hit us here, and then took from these-” She highlights the major supply storage areas on either side of the Farm. Her voice is riddled with concern. “It’s not great. We’ll recover, but it’s going to take months. Even if we reduce the number of people living there.”

“We'll see it through,” He says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She sags against him, head on his chest much like she had when she woke up about an hour previously.

“I know we will,” She agrees quietly into his usual red sweater. It's warm and soft under her cheek. “I just feel horrible. I know it's not my fault, but it feels like it. If I had been around more...”

That's a feeling the Commander knows well. He presses his own cheek against her forehead, and tightens his arm around her in an inverted sort of hug. “A good leader feels responsible. That isn't necessarily a bad thing; it keeps you humble. Being able to separate your responsibility from things you cannot control is important. Your job is to get them through this trying time and remain firm but compassionate. You will see them through this. You’re going to get them plenty of aid today, and it’s just the start.”

Another nod into his shirt. “Just have my back in this meeting,” She says tiredly. “I know it's the Dawning and all, but I don't see the factions bending over backwards to help.”

“Oh, they'll help,” Zavala replies. His voice takes on the tone it does when he's teaching her about protocols and policies, it makes her back straighten and her attention sharpen. “Consider it a token of goodwill,” He continues, releasing her. She takes it as a cue to look up into his brilliant blue eyes. “Those people we bring to the City will remember who helped them. It might make them inclined to join a faction.”

Suraya scoffs at that. Most of those left at the Farm are barely keen on returning to the City - they’ve invested everything they have into the Farm - and even fewer are remotely interested in Factions or their political agenda. “Zavala, you do know that none of the people who are left at the Farm…” He smirks and she can't help but crack an answering smile, shoving him just a little, not that the wall of muscle that is the Titan Vanguard can be moved so easily. “You sly bastard!”

“What they don't know,” He rumbles, the cheeky look on his face making him seem younger, playful even, “Won't hurt them, Suraya. Allow me to handle things.”

It's hard to argue with that logic, so she reclines into the couch cushions, satisfied. “You enjoy it, don't you?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Yeah,” She bites back, trying not to smile too much, “Suuuuure you don't. You better be careful, or they're going to think you and I have a pretty strong alliance. Even stronger than yours with Hideo.”

“It wouldn't be a lie,” He replies easily, voice dropping low as he continues. “You are a far more appealing ally both in and out of Consensus meetings.”

It strikes her as she grins that they are absolutely flirting. It's confidence boosting, makes her forget about the looming sadness or the pressure from being overtired behind her eyes. She leans in toward him again. “Ally. Psh. I must be losing my edge,” Her eyes lock on his, dark heat against bright ice, “I could've sworn you liked it better when I fought with you on every little detail.”

“Fought?” He chuckles, and it's warm. She can smell the coffee on his breath. “No.” She leans further toward him, her eyes canting down to his small smile - pale, soft lips - and then back up to his gaze. “Debate, however?” He dips his head down and their breaths mingle. “Enjoy is too small of a word,” He says, and she watches him look down at her lips for a second.

Maybe one kiss without the whole discussion wouldn't be so bad, she thinks, eyes drifting closed as he comes closer. Just to test the waters. Last night didn't really even count.

A warm, tingly heat settles low in her belly and makes her thighs clench when her eyes blink open and he's so close she can practically taste him, eyes half lidded and all but searing on her. She wants. It's almost embarrassing how much she wants him, but in the moment she thinks it's perfectly rational.

“Zavala,” She whispers, afraid to make that move, wanting to know that he wants to make it, too. To meet in the middle. “I-”

His eyes sink closed and she knows it was never one sided at all, not that she ever really truly felt it was. She wants to see this moment, to remember everything about it-

His tablet rings in a trilling, jarring tone. They both flinch away from each other.

The moment is broken.

The skin around Zavala's eyes crinkle in that secret smile, but his eyes are apologetic. He clears his throat. “We-” She almost thinks his voice cracks for a second, but he'd actually spoke louder than he'd intended and had drew back, speaking softer. “We should probably get moving.”

“Yeah,” She agrees, though disappointment bleeds into her voice, just a little.

-/

The Consensus meeting goes better than Suraya expects, and yet not as well as Zavala plans. He is sure to pay extra attention to Hideo as he is easily Suraya's largest adversary(putting it nicely) and will need the reassurance that the Commander's only bias is in New Monarchy's favor(if he were to be a man of bias, which he isn't). That's a crock, considering that of any alliance, one between him and their ambassador for humanity would make the most sense if he's attempting to sway humanity toward bigger and better. He is a leader. He protects. He does not desire power which is why he is suited to wield it. Hideo simply does not understand, his prejudices blind him, and times like these make it abundantly clear why Zavala cannot wholly endorse the Executor's agenda.

If he's honest with himself, these political games are a bit exhausting. Though not nearly as exhausting as the reports he gets from the Farm.

The death toll is crawling upward. They're at roughly one hundred forty-five dead, many of those with catastrophic burns succumbing to their injuries. The injured count is stable at approximately three hundred twenty. Anyone missing and unaccounted for is presumed dead in the fire, which is another fifty two.

Suraya estimates the death toll will reach two hundred thirty. He stiffens at some of her descriptions when she's asked to provide them. The factions desired information, and she did not disappoint.

Ikora does not blanch, but he watches her shift uncomfortably, and Cayde is stoic, still in such a way that Zavala can feel his anger. The Hunter Vanguard clearly felt he would do more good out in the field in a situation like this. He probably isn't wrong, but by the time they had called for Guardian support at the Farm, much of the damage had been done.

Suraya speaks low, her words carefully chosen, voice withdrawn and strangely hollow. Disassociating her emotions for the sake of recalling specifics. She, like Cayde, prefers to be in the trenches with her people. It is both a blessing and a curse.

As she sits beside the Hunter Vanguard, her hands folded carefully in front of her, Zavala realizes that one of the minor burns on her arm is in the shape of fingers, and it makes his heart constrict painfully when he thinks of how it had to have been inflicted. He's certain that she discarded her thick sweater over the back of her chair on purpose - clearly unable to wear her standard garb. She hates making a spectacle of herself, and however slight, he knows those burns hurt. But she did what she had to in order to ascertain the necessary aid. Even if it meant showing momentary weakness.

The second the meeting is over and the factions leave, Cayde pulls Suraya's sweater off the back of her chair and holds it out for her to shrug into. It's a trap, and he hugs her from behind once she's in the garment. Zavala waits for her to pull away - he knows she hates surprises hugs and public affections, especially from those who aren't in her inner circle. She doesn't push him away though, one hand squeezing the gloved arms barred in front of her. This must have been tougher on her than he thought, if she’s accepting comfort from Cayde, who is not exactly one of her favorite people.

“Hey, uh, I'm taking Hawthorne for Ramen,” Cayde tells his fellow Vanguard. Hawthorne doesn't get a choice in the matter, nor does she ask for one. “You two hold down the fort.” His eyes meet Zavala's gaze over the top of Suraya's head, strangely serious while Ikora nods her approval across the table. “We won't be long. Meet you back in your office, Z.”

Once Cayde escorts a too docile Hawthorne out the doors, Ikora looks to Zavala. She is not impressed. “Certainly the Factions could have given a little more. You appealed directly to Hideo and he barely gave an inch.”

“I have no doubt,” He agrees. And he does. “The Clans have already contributed more based on the ships Amanda’s been logging leaving the hangar(she's been updating him more often than Devrim has), and they are working with far less to begin with.” There’s a quiet moment. “It’s a shame, but there is not much we can do in this regard. I had hoped they would believe they could convert some of the clans to support their factions, but that is not on their agenda, it seems.” Zavala pauses. “Regardless. We will be able to get by. I am not concerned.”

Except, he always is.


	12. Chapter 12

Cayde returns the Clan Steward to Zavala’s office not long after the Commander and Ikora arrive. The worktable is still covered in Dawning gifts and the bushels of cards from what seems like an eternity ago to the full-bellied woman who is feeling even more drowsy now with a belly full of the Ramen Shop’s house special.

Cayde pats her shoulder - she’s recovered enough to be over his clingy personality, needing her space and flinching away awkwardly. She does thank him for putting both their meals on his tab though. He’s almost bashful over being recognized for his good deeds, but then he manages to come up with a mild snark about her being able to repay him by doing some paperwork for him next time they’re on strikes together. She lets him have it, it’s unspoken that she always does paperwork when they run strikes together(usually in this office).

She pulls out her new tablet and sets out to answering messages, ignoring the mild pull of exhaustion, the in and out of focus of her vision as her eyes droop. She catches herself twice before she thinks any of them notice, but Zavala is always two steps ahead. He waits for her to reluctantly meet his gaze before casting his eyes over at the small couch on the far side of the office and back, pointedly.

Suraya shakes her head just a fraction. His eyes narrow in response. She refocuses down at her tablet intently while Ikora continues on beside her about potential restructuring options they could explore. The Warlock happened to have attended the last meeting on a whim and had some ideas of potential relocation areas for the displaced people of the Farm. Cayde remains mostly quiet, loitering against the wall between large windows, interjecting when necessary.

They don’t actually know the full number of people who will need to relocate. They won’t for a while, the current numbers just growing estimates that induce more and more anxiety. It will depend on what rebuilding efforts look like at the Farm, and what is the quicker, more advantageous solution for all parties involved. In short, until they go and get an idea of the damage for themselves, there is no way that they will be able to do anything of use besides plot and plan. And even that can’t be done fully without knowing the full specifications the resulting efforts will require.

Zavala’s tablet beeps and blinks at him with a message from Devrim that pulls him out of Ikora’s soft spoken discussion of available sectors. The EDZ scout is messaging him with a standard update. Updated death toll, estimated displaced - unofficially set at a couple thousand and rising. Considering there are still thirty thousand City-folk living at the Farm, it's a staggering number.

The Commander frowns, looking up at Hawthorne, who has clearly also received the update without the audio alert. She sighs and sets her tablet on the edge of his desk after typing a reply expressing her thanks, blatant concern, and asking if there’s anything she can do.

Devrim replies for her to take care of herself, because they need her. She swipes the tablet back reluctantly from the desk and replies that he needs to be safe, too and something about a good salve for a burn that he can make with plants that grow in the area.

With a typed out laugh, Dev replied to the group message that he'd taught her that one, if she recalled and he would be just fine. He'd already made some in his few minutes of downtime yesterday.

Ikora is just about finished talking ten minutes later when Suraya tips her head back and rubs her fingers into her forehead. Her head is pounding from trying to stay focused amid her exhaustion. Around her, Ikora looks at Cayde and then Zavala, with a quick dart of gold-toned eyes toward the Clan Steward and back.

“Suraya,” Zavala finally says, ignoring both of his Fireteam members’ weird looks at his lack of formality. There's no need to be formal right now. Certainly both of them know they spend time together. She blinks up at him, eyes bleary. “Take the couch. I'll wake you if something happens.” Gently, he affirms, “I promise.”

Cayde lets out a mote of sound as if he's going to second the idea and jump on the bandwagon when she protests, but the woman simply slides her tablet across the desktop so it comes to rest on the Commander's side. “Just for a few minutes,” She acquiesces. “Get me if Dev or Marc call, even if it's not an emergency. Please.”

“Of course,” Zavala agrees easily. He's sure both men would argue against just that, but he's not about to start a fight since she's agreeing.

When she settles in on the couch, crochet blanket pulled down over herself, Cayde plops into the recently vacated seat. “Well, that was way easier than I expected.”

“Quiet,” Ikora reprimands tersely. “Let’s not disturb her if we can help it.” And then, even softer, “I cannot imagine what she saw. The reports my hidden have given me are… disturbing. It’s a civilian staging area, barely a warfront. For this to occur...” Ikora has a difficult time empathizing, though she is not without feeling.

Cayde's optics are serious. “She, ah, told me a little bit, when we were waiting for our meal. Burning isn’t fun. We’ve all spent enough time in Shaxx’s Mayhem to know what a solar genade feels like on the receiving end.” He makes a weird little halfway gesture with his hands, uncomfortable. “Kinda worries me, her being like this. We should keep an eye on her.”

Zavala doesn’t quite roll his eyes, having a bit too much decorum for that, but he does gruff out, “I am.”

There’s a quiet scoff across from him. “Clearly.” Ikora glances over her shoulder at the woman on the couch, her eyes returning to bore into Zavala’s luminescent ones, as if to say she suspects Hawthorne’s agreeable demeanor to his instruction is no happy accident. Ikora was also the second or third person at most consensus meetings(after Zavala, or Zavala and Hawthorne together), and one of the last to leave. She’s seen them together, knows they’re a bit closer than colleagues, and more than likely in the territory of friends.

“Obviously,” Cayde says, as if he's led the discussion up to this point, then winces at his own volume, dialing it down a notch. “I just mean that, y'know, if there’s anything we can do, let us know.” Ikora looks mildly uncomfortable. She's aloof by nature and Hawthorne isn't exactly in her circle of friends - not many hold such an esteemed title - though they are amiable, of course. She manages a stiff nod to Cayde's statement.

Zavala nods, and their impromptu meeting is adjourned. He doesn't plan on taking either of them up on it, strike operations are on hold with very few exceptions in the EDZ, and whatever Farm restructuring plan will be best handled by the two of them, even with Ikora's well-meaning advice. Ikora and Cayde are excellent at managing operations abroad with their wide reach and ease of access. He's content to leave their usual work to them without adding extra. Besides, Suraya would surely be embarrassed to hear that Cayde essentially offered himself up to act as a babysitter.

-/

The sounds of quiet discussion - low, rolling voices, like waves in the sea - bring her drifting closer to wakefulness. It's dark, she doesn't need to open her eyes to tell, the afternoon light long gone on the other side of her eyelids. She shifts and feels the distinct chill in the air of an open window. The quietest of chitters echoes from across the room and precursors a laugh that's deep and purposely dampened, likely by hand or fist.

“He likes attention, I see,” Suraya recognizes the voice immediately. Saladin.

There is a little chirp, the scuffle of talons on what she's guessing is the plasteel of Zavala's gauntlet. She focuses, wants to hear this.

Zavala hums. It sounds affectionate. Her chest blooms with warmth despite the ache of grief and bite of returning stress threatening to overwhelm her. “Louis is an interesting falcon. Certainly full of personality,” The Commander admits. She knows his sounds, her bird certainly agrees.

“Much like his handler,” Saladin replies.

The sound of something sliding captures her attention. Zavala speaks again. “Select what you'd like. I'll have it delivered here.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps she would-”

“I'll wake her when it comes, if the smell doesn't first.”

She assumes he's stroking Louis in that way he does, down his chest with his fingertips, the way she always said would get him nipped but her partner for some reason allows. She also guesses he's ordered Indian, and the thought of warm naan and malai reminds her that she needs to catch up on meals, too. She hasn't been very good about taking care of herself in light of recent events, and ramen isn't an incredibly filling meal for someone who hasn't eaten properly in days.

However, she's warm under the blankets, Louis is incapable hands, and the couch is comfortable enough. Even the silence that settles over the two Titans is soothing. She is safe to let herself doze a while longer. It'll be another hour before the food will be delivered, if she knows anything about the delivery systems around here(and she does).

It's slightly less time than that when the food does arrive, and she's coaxed awake with fingertips against her cheek and a whisper in her ear. She must have been in the upswing of a REM cycle because she comes to a bit disoriented, feeling like it's morning and not late evening, panicking over something she doesn't remember until it all hits her again, all at once. Zavala has her fingers wrapped around a mug of tea nearly instantly, his eyes gentle, body blocking his mentor's view.

She's grateful for that. His gaze is a steady anchor, and she smells notes of jasmine in the tea. He knows her well. When he steps away, she sees the steaming containers of food and knows the little tick of his brow means for her to join them when she's gathered her bearings. She hears a soft flutter from the window by his desk and knows Louis is waiting for her, too.

Saladin sighs. “I'd like to come,” He tells Zavala. “When you go to the Farm, to survey-” Suraya gets over herself quickly, on her feet and padding silently across the office without her boots, tea placed beside Zavala's similar mug, hers red and his blue. Saladin's is yellow, but looks to be coffee instead of tea.

The Iron Lord's gaze follows her all the way over to the open window, where Louis is perched. “Hey Bird,” She says, and the raptor cries out, the sound shrill. Concerned. She thumbs the ruffled feathers of his head. “I'm fine,” She assures him quietly. Behind her, Saladin drops his volume and continues speaking, but she knows the ice-water feel of eyes on her back. “I'm sorry I haven't been around. Gonna be that way for a little bit longer.” He nips her, hard enough to chastise but not to break skin. Makes eye contact. Cheeps a few times and pushes into the hand that smooths against his feathers.

“He will be fine, Suraya,” Saladin addresses loud enough to break her concentration, a few moments of doting later. “The Commander here spoiled him with treats while you were resting.”

Zavala harrumphs at being caught. Suraya always yells at him for fattening up her bird. (“He's a falcon, not a turkey, Zavala.”)

“He’s less spoiled and more like a con artist,” She replies instead, surprising Titan who’s preparing for a reprimand. Louis nips more affectionately now, and she cracks the window a bit more, indicating it's okay for him to take to the sky. He does, and she watches his wings beat once, twice against the cold air as he flies away. “When did he drop in?” She asks as she shuts the window behind him. Her memory recalls waking up earlier but she has no idea how long she's been out.

“A few hours ago. Come eat,” The Iron Lord commands. Her stomach rumbles in answer as she joins them, and she nurses some of her tea first. Sitting between them, she watches both of them glance at her as if to assure themselves she’s alright.

“Did you pick the day?” She asks Zavala, referring to the topic Saladin had been on when she rose from the couch. “And did I miss anything?” Hawthorne forces herself to eat slowly, realizing that she is positively famished.

Zavala nods. “It's on your calendar. Two days time.” He pauses to take a bite of chicken tikka. “Devrim sends his regards-”

Furious - no, he knows her better now. Anxious dark eyes, like soil and earth turn to him as she sets down her utensil. “I told you to-”

“He only messaged you.” Zavala lays a palm on her shoulder when she bristles. She’s incredibly tense. “I called him for an update.”

“Is he okay?” The surge of protectiveness is not missed by either man.

The Commander nods. “He was getting off his shift for the evening. He wanted you to know they have plenty of help and the Clans are helping admirably, and not to fret about him. I believe he said that is Marc’s specialty.”

“He doesn’t get a choice,” The Clan Steward says, stabbing a piece of meat with force, though her rage has significantly receded. “I’ll worry if I want to.” It’s almost a pout.

Zavala shakes his head at her reaction, eyes lighting up in a way that Saladin does not miss, his eyes silently dancing from the woman and back to his former pupil. Zavala's eyebrows raise in a questioning arch that subsides when Suraya reaches between them for a piece of warm naan, still wrapped in paper and foil.

“Is there something I’m missing?” She asks skeptically when both their expressions school themselves into something less expressive. Her eyes are dark and she still looks tired, but far better than she had before. Her mind felt clearer with every bite, and that meant she was well over being coddled or treated like an invalid. “You two are making weird faces.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Uh huh,” She looks at Saladin instead of Zavala. Her eyes narrow, and Zavala winces at the knowing look she gives him. His stomach flops and his heart beats loud in his chest.

Lord Saladin has absolutely talked to Suraya. His mentor has absolutely said something to her. Something personal, if that look is any indication. Insecurity washes over him like a cold shower. Did he say something to her about his feelings? Or worse, her own?

After a moment, Suraya drops her gaze to her meal and they both continue eating, letting it go. Zavala finds that he can’t take another bite.


	13. Chapter 13

After their dinner, the trio splits up for the night. Zavala, extremely pensive (seemingly out of nowhere), does not invite her in and does not give her an indication he'd like to spend more time with her. So she doesn't dare invite him to her apartment either. She would hate to put him out after all he's done for her in the past day.

And of course because she slept for a few hours earlier, and has trouble staying asleep for the most part normally, she can't asleep. No amount of chamomile tea is helping, nor does bringing the blanket he made her to bed. It’s not the same. She’s officially had the real deal and it’s ruined her.

She could smack herself for being so damn pathetic, but instead, she moves into her kitchen, cleaning it from top to bottom, managing to find the necessary items - thankfully still good despite her time away - for banana bread. She's got enough for a few loaves, and sits at the small island in her kitchen, a working copy of the budget she'd just passed for the Farm in front of her while the loaves bake, the warm, mildly spicy scent filling up her flat.

The night passes quickly enough and she makes sure to make the heaviest caffeinated tea she can think of to make sure she doesn't crash too early. By the time 0400 comes around, she's nibbled her fair share of her own bread and wrapped the rest so it stays warm.

She heads out to the Tower early, wrapped in several extra layers of sweaters without her poncho to keep her warm. She forgets how valuable that garment is until it's gone. It's practically her second skin.

When the Vanguard leaders eventually enter into the hall at first light, there's two loaves of bread - Cayde will eat one loaf himself if they don't stop him - and coffee from the Tower's best cafe, each cup marked with the symbol of their respective order, waiting for them.

Hawthorne probably won't thank them out loud for their help, defensive about anything that might lead to discussing her emotional vulnerabilities, but the message is received loud and clear.

Cayde practically dives into the first loaf he can get his hands on, while Ikora and Zavala are a bit more reserved. Amanda stumbles in, hands devoid of any grease (looks like she hasn’t started her shift yet), a similar paper cup of java in one hand (complete with a little ship drawn on it), and robs half of the loaf Cayde’s hogging, winking at the Commander as she heads back. He offers her a little smile and she waves as she leaves.

Meanwhile, Hawthorne spends her day outside in the winter air, trying to get ahead of everything she’s fallen behind on. The clans have been able to get their bounties easily enough, that’s not an issue. She’s posted them, and can easily have loot transmatted to the postmaster for them upon completion. They’ll live with a little delay.

It’s surprising, though, when she turns to leave around midday, hoping to catch up on some reading in one of her hideaways, and finds Lord Saladin all the way over in the Bazaar, eyes on her ledge in particular. Louis chirps behind her from his perch, content where he is.

She dips down the stairs to the main walkway through the Bazaar and meets him near the ramen stand. Her hunch is correct, he was definitely looking for her.

“Hi,” She says, and it’s weird. The Guardians around them all look away and get rather quiet. Horseplay that usually runs rampant throughout this part of the Tower - away from the yelling of Shaxx and the silent, serious gaze of their Commander that usually keeps them relatively in line. Usually Ikora’s immediate area is the only place where things stay relatively peaceful around here.

These guardians are clearly more afraid of Saladin than they are of the rest of the leadership here at the Tower. It’s funny. She’s sure he knows that.

“Hello, Suraya.”

A Guardian eating ramen to her left and his right slurps loudly in shock and his buddy has to slap him hard on the back to prevent him from choking further. Suraya rolls her eyes at that, and Saladin’s dark eyes light up just a little. Clearly he enjoys, at least somewhat, the impact he has on the general Guardian population.

“What can I do for you?”

“Let’s take a walk.” She looks at him with a tilt of her head, eyes narrowed slightly. He holds both hands out, knowing she’s looking for a reason. He’s not a man of frivolity. There’s something he’d like to discuss.

“I’ll bite,” She says, though her tone is hesitant at best. “I know a guy who makes great tamales. Mind going down into the City for some lunch as well?” She may as well give them some purpose, a direction to walk in, and she hasn't checked on the kind old man who owns the little stand in a few weeks.

Saladin smiles. Someone catches their Fireteam’s hunter as they fall out off of their stool. He chuckles, even. “Not at all.”

The Guardians chatter in concern as they leave. One of them has their ghost take a picture when Saladin offers her his arm and she loops hers through like nothing strange is happening.

-/

Zavala spends the afternoon listening to very concerned and incredibly chatty guardians discuss what they suspect is some kind of relationship developing between his mentor and Hawthorne. Apparently, they’ve disappeared at midday and have yet to return. Or, at least, two hours ago, Lord Saladin returned but Hawthorne has not come back to her post.

He doesn’t suspect she would, no one frequents her post in the late evening, anyway. Most come to her in the morning, to collect bounties for the day or week that they can spend the day working toward. Although, it is strange not to hear from her at all during the day after spending so much time with her. He finds himself messaging her without really thinking about it.  _Everything okay? Haven’t heard from you all day._

She responds almost instantly.  _All ok here. Girl’s night with Amanda. Promised her when I dropped by this morning with coffee. It’s nice to catch up. Don’t know about this bar though._

He frowns at the screen.  _Which bar?_

_Don’t worry. She wouldn’t take me somewhere too seedy unless she brought Cayde too. It’s fine. Should I message you when I get home safe? There’s a smiley face at the end of the message. It’s something she’s picked up from the woman she’s with._

Zavala sighs. He knows she’s teasing, but he answers honestly anyway.  _I’d feel better if you did._

_Fair enough. By the way, anyone try to tell you I’m dating an Iron Lord? It’s all Amanda is talking about. Take a guy for tamales and suddenly everyone thinks you’re together. Geez. He’s older than you are._

_His eyebrows go up. What is that supposed to mean?_

_He’s too old for me._

The Commander doesn’t have an answer to that. What did that mean, exactly? Was he too old, too? Instead, he asks her what she discussed with his old mentor, ignoring the dating business. These sorts of rumors cropped up every time someone so much as looked at someone else. It would die down in a day or two. She mentions some things about Shiro and the Farm, but when he inquires further, she promises a sitrep sometime later. Amanda is getting upset about sharing.

He carries on with business as usual, even squeezes in a strike and some extra paperwork before retiring to his flat for a rather quiet evening. He manages to crank out some crochet - it’s nice to lose himself in counting stitches and rows, to take his mind off of his work, emotions, everything really. He manages to churn out a scarf from start to finish, and is halfway through a second one: periwinkle-blue in color and made of soft, plush yarn that’s warm in his hand when a thump against his door gets his attention.

There’s a snicker and a laugh. “That’s definitely not your door,” Says a voice that sounds an awful lot like Amanda.

“Oh,  _oooohhh_.” He sets his work aside and moves toward the door in time to hear Suraya say, “No wonder my code didn’ work.”

“Yeah,” Amanda says, loud and amused. “No wonder.”

Zavala sighs. Holliday always had a way of liquoring up anyone and everyone she went out with. As he opens the door, Suraya stumbles backwards into him, and he knows for fact she’s no exception. His hands fall to her hips, and hers cover his for a moment that feels like a lifetime but really isn’t.

“Amanda, I can take it from here,” She says, pushing back against Zavala to straighten herself up.

“You sure?” She asks, and then says then to Suraya, "I really didn’t think you had that much to drink. Anyways, sorry, Commander,” The blonde continues, eyes sparkling as she drawls. “Didn’t mean to disturb your evening.”

“Yeah,” Hawthorne echoes, “Sorry. Thanks for the night out,” The Clan Steward tells the Shipwright. “I live down the way, I got it. Promise” Suraya casts her right hand in the direction of her flat, down at the other end of the hallway.

Amanda nods, and with a final glance at the duo, takes her leave. There’s no doubt in her mind that Zavala will feel the need to see Hawthorne to her door, that he would, even if she stuck around. He’s a worrier like that. For her though, the night is still young, and Cayde’s out there somewhere just asking for her to beat him at a hand or two of poker.

Zavala sighs at Hawthorne, who takes one small step towards her flat. She looks back at him, blinking in confusion. “What? Sorry, I didn’t mean to drink so much. Felt nice, though, doing the girl’s night thing.”

He can’t help the smile. Even under the influence, she is endearing. “Would you like to come in?”

Suraya nods. He opens the door to his flat again, and she hesitates with a bite of her lip. “I shouldn’t though.”

“Why not?” His brows furrow.

She staggers as she steps closer to him, her words a quiet mumble. “Cause I won’t wanna go home,” She reveals like it’s a secret. In a way, it is. “Sleep better with you.”

His eyes widen marginally, and he rests his hand on the door frame as her words rattle around in his brain. The Titan wonders aloud, “Is that why you made banana bread for everyone last night?”

She nods sheepishly, wringing her hands together. “And cleaned, 'n maybe started revising the Farm's budget?”

The hand on the door frame returns to his side, and he pushes the door open wider. “Come in, Suraya.”

“But-”

His hand encircles her wrist and tugs gently. “No arguments. Come.” When his voice drops low, she squirms. How is it possible to sound so hot when giving an order? The traitorous part of her mind, uninhibited and buzzing thanks to the alcohol, thinks that she better get moving into that apartment before he commands her to come one more time and she takes it a bit differently than he's anticipating.

Damn this devastatingly beautiful man and his rumbly-smooth, perfect voice.

-/

He sets a glass of water in front of her, picking up the sweater she's removed and hanging it up in his coat closet before sitting on the other side of the couch. She takes a sip of water gratefully and looks over at him.

“I'm really sorry about this,” She tells him in more of a whisper than anything else, really. “I really can go home.”

“You need to sleep,” He tells her.

“Well unless I'm going to sleep with you every night-” His eyes dart to her in surprise, and she snorts. “Exactly. Someone might think ‘m cheating on Saladin - s’cuse me -  _Lord_  Saladin,” She giggles, startling herself with the sound. Zavala's brows raise, “With you.”

“Well,” He indulges, playing into her words, “You can't have that. He might be offended.”

“Puh-lease,” Suraya puts her sock-clad feet on the empty cushion between them. “You do know that's bullshit, I hope. Don't see me banging on his door after a night on the town, do you?”

“To be fair, you thought this was your apartment,” He replies quickly, chuckling, but his tactician's mind is already three steps into analyzing her words.

“To be fair,” She echoes, “I wanted to go home. Jus’ so happens that's less place specific,” her hand gestures toward him, “An’ more person specific.” And then, she reaches for her water, guzzling the rest of it down with a quiet curse. “Aw, fuck.”

“Relax,” He says, trying to convince her to calm down. He’s a hypocrite, because his heartbeat’s accelerating like he’s been dropped onto a battlefield without warning. She’s had too much to drink. She’s just rambling. She doesn’t mean it-

“Wish I could. Spent the afternoon with Saladin who buttered me up with support for the Farm and then blindsided me with ‘So, how are things with you and the Commander? Have you talked about…’”

Zavala rubs his temples, ventures weakly, “About?”

The glare she fixes him cuts through her embarrassment like a hot knife. “What do you think? I’m sure he’s giving you advice, too.” She flops back on the couch. “Pretty sure he wants us together almost as much as we do.”

He looks at her incredulously. Did she actually just say that? How much did she drink?

She scoffs. “Look. I might drunk ‘n rambling, but I’m not wrong an’ we both know it.”

“Suraya,” He warns.

“Don’t ‘Suraya’ me,” She drops her voice in an imitation of his low rumble. “I’m not coming onto you or somethin’. I’m jus’ statin’ facts.”

“This is not the time to have this discussion.”

“I know. But it’s easier now. The words juss come out an’ I don’ haveta think about ‘em.”

He sighs. “I’m sure,” And he is. “But this isn’t you. You’ll regret this in the morning. We’ll,” He pauses, “Have this discussion another time.”

“When?”

Bright blue eyes blink. “What?”

“When?” She rises in a sway, and takes her cup to the sink. When she returns, she doesn’t come to the couch, instead walking convincingly enough to the coat closet for her sweater. Anger washes over her, and it’s sobering enough. “Zavala, you let me in here, knowing that I want to sleep with you - not like that, er, well - you know,” She sighs, and she’s not blushing when she looks at him, like he expects her to be - like he is.

“Suraya, I-”

“I know.” She looks up and away, and he all but jumps to his feet when he sees her eyes gloss over with tears. “I didn’t want to even start this, you know. I was okay pretending I didn’t. It would’ve been easier. I told him that. That I didn’t want to ruin you. I’ll live, what? Fifty, sixty more years? Assuming I don’t die in some skirmish first, and just get wrinkly and gross. You’ll-” She breaks off, the words lodged in her throat. The truth of it all, bubbling up without her permission, begging to come out.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll hurt you,” She tells him, and an angry tear streaks down her cheek without permission. “Sometimes I wish we hadn’t met, just so I wouldn’t have to do this,” She admits. “I know I’ll hurt you. I won’t do that to you knowingly.”

“That isn’t your choice.” He rises and takes the hanger with her sweater out of her hand, puts it back in the closet and closes the door. “Stay. Please.”

Her eyes flutter closed. She relents. “I’m really drunk. And you’re right,” She admits. “This is a horrible time to have this conversation.”

“Truly,” He agrees. His arms wrap around her shoulders, and she leans into him, fingers locking behind the small of his back.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” She whispers into his shirt, face pressed into his chest. “I don’t.”

“I know.”

But she will. And he’ll cherish every moment, every single one they get.


	14. Chapter 14

She wakes up alone, curled up around his pillow. The other side of the bed is warm, she’s migrated from her usual side to the other. The headache hits her in full-force when she inhales against the pillow and the scent of wind and sky and sandalwood remind her of exactly where she is.

This is Zavala’s bed. She and Amanda went drinking, he let her in, she… Ugh. Okay. So she said some pretty emotional things. Zavala knew she was drunk. Zavala also knew she wasn’t lying. And, Zavala, she’s past doubting it now, felt similarly. Hence the whole ‘stay, sleep over again,’ business.  She looks at the the small table next to her side of the bed.

Painkillers and water. That wonderful, attentive, beautiful bastard. She gulps the pills down and takes her time sipping the rest of the water.

By the time she’s done, snuggling back down into the comforter, she hears the sound of the washroom door opening down the hall. He exits the room in a swirl of steam - he likes his showers hot - and she clamps a hand over her mouth, under the covers pulled up to her nose.

Zavala is shirtless. He’s only wearing those brown pants he wears under his armor. Traveler take her now. Actually, no, she amends, as he enters the room, the Traveler had better leave her alone to enjoy this. The swirling patterns of light she always sees on his face and head carry down his back and chest, too. Wow, she thinks. She’s glad she wasn’t having a conversation with him, as she discreetly pulls the blankets up as high as she can in an attempt not to be noticed checking him out. Those muscles go on for days, and the only word that would come from her mouth would be an expletive.

Damn, she has good taste, she thinks to herself. No wonder Amanda's got Titan-bias. She never knew muscles - his are not huge or bulky, they're lean but firm, understated but cut, inherently powerful - were so attractive.

She closes her eyes as he pads quietly over to her, laying a hand on her head, smoothing back her hair and peeling the blanket down so that her face is visible. She looks up at him, eyes getting a closeup of that sculpted chest leaning over her. There’s not a speck of hair on his chest, and his nipples are a dark blue, navy-ink kind of color. She holds back her gulp. Her fingers twitch, wanting to reach out from beneath the blankets.

Does he have any idea what he’s doing to her? Probably not. Damn him.

“Suraya,” He rumbles in her ear. Goosebumps erupt down her arms and legs. “You have to get up,” He continues. “I let you sleep as long as I could.”

She rolls over, onto her back, throwing the entirety of the blankets off of her, taking a few deep breaths in the cool morning air. Stretches languidly. “I’m up.”

He flushes and looks away quickly, but not quickly enough for her to miss the once over he gave her. Clearly, she’s wearing her shirt, panties, and nothing else, based on how cold her legs feel. She's sure that stretch gave him a good view of her underwear, too. Serves him right for waltzing around without a shirt on.

When she leaves the bed, she doesn’t bother with the pants that are discarded on the floor. She instead presses a kiss to his cheek, careful to angle her body away from his. She isn’t trying to make this physical. She owes him an apology, after all.

“I’m sorry for last night,” She tells him, voice gruff from sleep. “I remember what I said. And even though I meant it, that was a bad situation to put you in.” She pauses, and then, “Thanks for letting me stay, anyway.” She doesn’t wait for a reply, instead slipping past him and heading to the shower to get cleaned up herself.

He puts a warm palm over where she’s kissed him and closes his eyes to prevent himself from watching those bare legs (and hips and thighs) of hers walk away. This dance of theirs is going to come to a head, sooner rather than later, and he knows it. Knew it when he took her home the other day. Even before, when he started dreaming of her. She has nothing to be sorry for. She, at least - even though intoxicated - was as direct about it as she could be without forcing him to respond.

He understood her reservations, had thought about them while she curled against him in her sleep. She is mindful for his sake, cares about the repercussions for him. She's holding back for him. He reaches into the drawer of his dresser and withdraws one of his usual sweaters. Pulls it over his head. She didn’t want to harm him with her short lifespan.

What she didn’t understand, what Zavala had to figure out how to tell her, was that she was going to do it, whether she wanted to or not. He would love her regardless of what they called it, whatever they decided ‘this’ was going to be, going forward. He would feel her loss, whether it was days(please, no) or decades away, in the deepest recesses of his heart. That the only difference would be in knowing that they held nothing back.

It all sounded so… easy in his head.

But, it wasn’t easy. Not really. ‘Suraya, I love you, and I know you’re going to die before me, but that’s okay.’ Certainly not an acceptable confession, he thinks. He sighs. Perhaps, when the moment was right, he would know.

-/

The day is short, but grueling. There is much to do, and they leave in the middle of the night in order to make it to the Farm the following morning. Devrim’s reports have become more spaced out, indicating things are well enough in hand. Still, she demands he wait until after she sees him to go back to Trostland. She knows it’s probably safer out in his hidey-hole, sad as it is to say, but with all of this, she’d feel better laying eyes on him one more time before he heads back to his station.

She manages to make it back to her flat as the sun is setting. It’s early, considering the season. She manages to pack her usual bag with the necessary items for the following day before she realizes she has a message.

It's an access code. Her heart beats loudly in her chest. He's giving her access to his place. The tablet buzzes with a follow-up message.

_So you aren't waiting up for me. I have a late meeting with Arach Jalal. See you at home._

“Seems someone's taken my words to heart,” She tells Louis, who chirps back at her and looks away as if to tell her she's being too sentimental. She smiles down at her handheld like a madwoman as she types, cheeks and chest warm.  _See you at home._

-/

He's not thrilled at how late his meeting goes, even for one that's been scheduled later in the day. He is, however, thankful for the aid from Dead Orbit for the Farm. It certainly exceeds that which the other two factions have given, and he is grateful for the last minute shipments being diverted somewhere they're desperately needed.

However, he knows what he's coming home to, tonight. Not that he's never come back from a meeting and told her to meet him, or come to her flat for an evening spent in quiet company.

No, Zavala has had ample time to analyze her words last night. He wonders if she recalled that he was the one who invited her to share his bed in the first place. He's sure she will be waiting, likely tucked in and cozy beneath the blankets. There's a pleasant comfort, a sweet, warm feeling that comes at that.

His libido, normally well controlled, burns fiery hot in his abdomen. It's not going to take much to tip that particular scale, all things considered. His eyes very nearly popped out of his skull this morning at the sight of her legs. What would he do with the rest of her?

At least he knows it goes both ways. Her eyes never left his chest until well after she got up this morning, and he knows what her waking up looks like. She'd been up for at least a few minutes when he 'woke’ her. He wonders if it would bother her if she slept without a shirt. Smirks, really, at the prospect. To be fair, he usually did sleep that way, and it seemed like it might have an added benefit, if her (dare he say) enthralled stare were any indication.

When he finally lets himself in his front door, he hears the chitter first. Scanning the room, the quiet, serious eyes of a familiar peregrine meet his own in the dark before turning away, looking out the window with a quiet shuffle of wings. She's brought over a small perch he's never seen, and her gauntlet lays beside it. He wonders if she's planning to bring him along with them in the morning.

He doesn't dwell on it long, though. He can hear the sounds of movement at the end of the hall, behind closed doors. Hears a hum that's practically a  _mewl_ -

All that heat in his gut, every lick of it surges lower. There's no way, he thinks, trying to damper his body's response to such a lewd sound. She would never-

The sound that he hears next is a sweet, low hum: a little, low,  _mmm_ , repeated like mantra before the exhale, the relief that comes from cresting that wave, of sinking into one's pleasure. It's a staggering thing, the realization. She is pleasuring herself. In his bed. His brain can generate no further observation. His heart beats wildly in his ears.

It all comes at him in a tangled mess, when his synapses start firing properly once more. There is no way she would do… he swallowed thickly… what she was doing knowing he was home. And, he had told her ‘late,’ and it was for what time they had to be awake in the morning, but it wasn't for him on a normal day.

Pretend like nothing happened, his heart and head decide. He makes a point to turn on the light in the hallway behind him, after retracing his steps almost to the kitchen as silently as he possibly can. He steps into the washroom and stares at his own reflection in the mirror.

Suraya Hawthorne was touching herself in his bed.

He squashes the thought of throwing caution to the wind. He is no hormone-fueled boy, unable to control himself. Although, it didn't seem his body planned go stop betraying it's very positive response to her choice of activity any time soon. That would be a problem.

Fine. He'd take a shower. It would save him time getting ready in the morning, and he had overseen a training session, earlier in the day.

…And he'd be able to work out his 'problem.’

-/

Suraya had no idea that that would have happened. Her cheeks burn as her chest heaves. It's natural, and she's not ashamed of actually doing the thing, but she's pretty sure she absolutely should have chosen a better location. Like her own bed. In her own apartment.

Definitely not sprawled out under his blankets with one hand down the front of her underwear and the other under her shirt. Although, it definitely enhanced the experience to be surrounded by his smell and these sheets are buttery and supple and definitely way nicer than the ones on her bed. Way she'd been living, having a bed is a luxury enough.

In any case, she heard him come in, and she absolutely does not want to him to know she just did what she absolutely did. She wipes the wetness of her fingers off on her panties and flops onto her side bonelessly. She can't even imagine what he'd think if he knew.

Thankfully he took a shower, she thinks. She needs a minute to compose herself. That felt really good. She lets herself space out.

Twenty minutes later, he curls against her back while she drifts, mostly asleep. She moans and stretches, feet sliding down his legs where his sleep shorts end, seeking his warmed skin and tangling their legs together. His hand slides down her side to her hip and she, making sounds that sear into his consciousness, scoots her rear against him, pressing firmly into his front. He grunts, a quiet, muffled thing into the hair at the back of her neck and can't help that his fingers twitch and grab hold of her hipbone tightly.

It's almost an oversensitivity issue when she grinds against him, but she settles after a moment. His lust is reasonably in hand, but she has no idea what she's doing to him. Blue skin, Awoken heritage aside, he is a man who is very much attracted to her - without quiet moans and her sleep-rathe shimmy against his spent arousal with her very enticing ass.

With little twitch of her shoulder she wakes herself, just a touch, but he doesn't release her hip, and feels the pull of muscle as her thighs clench and her hips stutter forward and back on instinct alone.

_Fuck._

He doesn't realize he's said it out loud, until another hum passes through her lips, his breath on her the side of her throat prompting her to bear her neck more, hair shifting as she squirms.

“Sorry,” She huffs as she comes to. “I was,” She stills, clearly awake and now panicking, “I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to-”

He sighs and gives her a little space, which she takes to roll onto her back beside him.

“I thought I was dreaming,” She says, panting. She rolls away, face almost purple in embarrassment. “I thought I was, I swear. I'll go-”

“Enough,” He says, in that low pitch that she absolutely cannot resist. The one that says the argument is over before it begins. “You will not.”

“I-” It's more of a gasp for breath, for purchase on the situation, and less of a word. “What?”

“You are going to stay here,” He says, breath ghosting over her ear. He watches her shiver. Was she truly that sensitive? That aroused, perhaps? “Unless, of course,” His voice takes on an endearing lilt, like the beginnings of a laugh, “You really would prefer otherwise.”

“N-no,” She stammers. “But,” She breaks off.

“I know what you were doing,” He reveals, voice dropping lower still. No sense in lying now, he can feel the desire rolling off her in waves, like the rock of her hips she barely realizes. “When I got home.” The 'm’ of home is a close of lips barely over the shell of her right ear. She keens, needy and sweet. “What you do not know,” He whispers, secretive and hushed, “Is what it did to me.”

Her head tips back, and he presses against her once more. “We-” His fingers grip her hips and pull her back against him as she cries in a moan.  Not at the action itself, but at his words, his purposeful touch. She cries, “H- _ah_ , Zavala! We totally should not be-”

“We're not,” He says. If he hadn't masturbated in the shower half an hour ago, he absolutely thinks they would. It would have taken a monumental effort not to rut back into her bum, but he's able to think clearly enough with a collected demeanor. “But you're never going to sleep that worked up.”

“I'll, um,” His fingers dance down her side, sweeping low into the curve of her pelvis, wide fingertips just barely tracing the apex of her leg and hip, “ _Ohh_. Zavala-”

“We should talk about this,” He admits, stroking the top of her thigh, up to her abdomen and back. Sensitive but not sexual. “But I don't think this is the time for that.”

She whines, just barely, “Probably, hmm, not.”

“When we get back from the Farm,” He says, resolute that they will need to talk. The conversation is over. “But for right now,” His nose and lips press against her skin, warm breath spilling over the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The hand stroking her moves higher, up, up, skimming over her shirt to graze her breast.

She mewls and grinds back into him, and he slides his hand back down, dipping purposely over her center over her clothes. She bucks hard into his cupped palm now, her top half pushing back against him while her hand slips over his, guiding his ministrations, pushing his large fingers hard against her clothed core, seeking that friction.

“Please,” She cries in a moan. It's loud against the quiet. “Please.”

“What do you need?” His voice is tight, strained. What he wouldn't do to-

“Touch me.” She gasps when his hand slips under her sleep shirt at her command, arches hard when his fingertips hone in on her breast, kneading gently but firm enough to make her shudder. “Make me-”

He nuzzles her neck, groaning into her skin as his hand dips down, down, down, and he obliges.

“As you wish.”


	15. Chapter 15

She somehow manages to sit beside him on the transport carrier. Neither Ikora or Cayde say much, though it's questionable if that's from lack of sleep or something else. Cayde dims his optics the second they're in the air, and Ikora produces a book from out of nowhere as she pushes the Exo's head off her shoulder and against his own headrest.

Zavala is quiet, his forearm and elbow lining up against her own on the armrest between them. They both look out the window of the Hawk, Zavala closest to it, and Hawthorne in the middle, closer to Cayde. The skyline is still dark.

Saladin sits alone across from them, in the seat directly facing Hawthorne. He is somber but awake. Surprisingly, it's Zavala who dozes, uncharacteristically tired, head lulling before eventually dropping onto her shoulder with a silent thunk.

“That's unusual,” Saladin gestures toward the other Titan. His voice is loud enough to hear but not so loud that it interrupts the three Vanguard’s activities. “He must be rather tired,” he continues. “Did something happen last night?”

“Oh!” Hawthorne scrambles, “Uh, he had a late meeting with Dead Orbit, maybe that had something to do with it?”

“Perhaps.” There is a look of well-placed scrutiny on Saladin's face and it's all she can do not to blush, knowing exactly why the commander only obtained a meager three hours of sleep last night. “Keep an eye out for each other,” he counsels sagely.

She nods. Definitely avoids gulping under the intensity of his stare. Zavala's hand slides over, covers hers and squeezes, before he resettles and folds them together in his lap, bracing his arm against her more thoroughly, to keep him more comfortable as he moves his head to the headrest. Bright blue eyes blink open tiredly, once, twice, and stay closed as his breathing evens out once more. She doubts he was ever awake, fluttering eyelids or not.

“I see,” Saladin says, to no one in particular. He looks at Zavala, then at her, as she resolutely stares out the window. She's doing a decent job of hiding it, but the tiny stain of pink around the lower half of her facial tattoos doesn't care about her denial. Saladin's happy they are at least opening up about it to each other, even if it's just a little. Even if it’s subconsciously.

He had really hoped they would take his words to heart.

-/

She does not spend a great deal of time with them, once they arrive at the Farm. Still, Saladin uses the opportunity to get to know a bit more about Hawthorne from those that know her best, listening to for the conversations that happen when the refugees think he and the Vanguard are not paying attention, or the way they interact with the Guardians themselves.

The people’s response is overwhelmingly grateful. Not hero-worship grateful. Just honest and purely thankful for whatever support they’re gifted.

It’s a strange difference from what he’s noted in the City and abroad in the centuries leading up to this war. The people stand taller, proud, but not foolishly so. They carry themselves almost like the Guardians do, despite their mortality. The majority are respectful, only a handful express distrust through their body language and words. It’s refreshing. The Guardians move among the civilians like equals, brothers in arms.

And they all seem to rally around Hawthorne.

For good reason, he supposes. They seem to chatter excitedly about her return, about the help she’s working to obtain from the Factions and the Vanguard's assistance. They are concerned for their future, but they trust her. That is the consensus. They quiet immediately, however, when she approaches with a man she introduces to him as Devrim Kay.

Devrim is incredibly polite, with a curt yet charismatic demeanor, sharp eyes, and a sniper rifle slung across his back similarly to the woman that stands close beside him. It doesn’t take a sleuth to objectively reason that these two are incredibly close. And certainly not based on the gratuitous use of ‘Our Suraya,’ compliments, and her mock irritated eye rolls at said comments, either.

They find their way into the largest of the remaining barns, this one not appropriate for more occupancy than the several chickens, a horse, and a pair of bleating goats that quiet they gather around a small table.

“Well, this is familiar, isn’t it,” Cayde marvels. “I should’ve brought Colonel.”

“That would have been a horrible idea,” Ikora reminds him. “You nearly lose her every time you take her away from your workstation.

“I do not! She would’ve stayed right here in the barn while we scoped things out.” His tone petulant.

“If I remember correctly,” Zavala says, “You liked her because she was the escape artist of the group.”

Hawthorne rolls her eyes, around the same time Devrim shakes her head, and the two Lightless humans share a rueful chuckle. The Hunter Vanguard carries on a while longer, to Suraya's growing irritation.

“How have I not had to bail you out of jail recently?” Devrim asks behind his hand.

In reply, she knocks into his shoulder, hard. “The Commander keeps me in line,” She quips back.

Zavala’s eyes flash like lightning over at Devrim, who in turn looks to him with narrowed eyes and a countenance of surprise. “Is that so?”

“I mean, someone has to.” The tone of her voice is light, growing more nonchalant as she notices the gaze of the man beside her. “Though I’ve been way too busy to be causing trouble.”

That earns her a loaded glance from Zavala (who clearly disagrees with her on the causing trouble bit), but she challenges him with one of her own before some of the scouts enter the barn. The group returns to business as usual at that. Saladin absolutely hones in on the contemplative look that covets Devrim's features as he looks between the Commander and the Clan Steward, even as the man reports off the staggering losses amid the rest of the developing statistics.

Apparently he's not the only one who might be invested in this new development, Saladin thinks. Interesting.

-/

They work together quietly. She had slipped away first, always easy to lose in the tangle of people and commotion. He’d found her half an hour later, poncho discarded over a mostly broken chair, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, serving what looked to be some sort of stew to refugees and Guardians alike. He always found her in places like these, compelled to help when she can’t sit still (which was often, especially when she’s anxious). Be it in the City, the Farm, the Tower, anywhere really, Suraya was well known for finding her way to whomever needed her most.

He didn’t say a word, just strode over and offered to take the place of the person beside her - she’d clearly relieved someone so that they could partake of the meal they were serving as well. She didn’t smile at him - hardly reacted, really - but when her eyes met his, they were amused and bright.

“Shirking your responsibilities, Commander?” She asks, when the line of hungry folk dissipates a while later. The smirk blooms on her face like a sarcastic flower.

The answering eye roll he offers her is something to see. “Looking to start a fight, Hawthorne?”

Unlike the last time he’d used her surname, she laughs, thinking similarly to their very rocky beginnings. When she meets eyes and sees his tiny smirking smile, she ducks her head. “Always,” She replies, and after a fleeting moment, looks back at him so unguardedly it feels like a blow to the chest. It doesn’t last long.

A group of hunters pushes open the tarp that keeps most of the warmth inside and heads in, one of their ghosts whizzing over their heads, chattering excitedly in a combination of words and synthesized sound.

She zings around the large tent, before settling above the food, calling to her Guardian, “Look, look! The Commander and Hawthorne are serving-”

“Fizzy, no, don't - agh, come back here!” A very concerned human Hunter calls. “Uh, sorry,” He continues as he looks up at his Ghost with wide, green eyes.

Fizzy the Ghost spins the pointed cones of her shell and twitches them in a confused shrug when her partner’s eyes dart to her right in an indication for her to move and pronto.

Her guardian sighs when she does not and regards Zavala’s curious glance with a sheepish one of his own. “Sorry, sir. She’s a little excited because of the Dawning. Always likes to spread cheer and whatnot.”

“Yeah!” The ghost drops down from above everyone’s heads, spinning in a wide circle around everyone in a blur of red and green, “I just love the Dawning! And one of my Guardian's friends gave me a gift, see? They said it's an old tradition to spread holiday cheer, from before the collapse!” She comes to a halt in the space above the Titan Vanguard and the Clan Steward.

They look up.

The Hunter's feels like his stomach has just been dropped from orbit. He peeks through his hands at the Commander, terrified.

The red metallic shell of his chattery Ghost has a little piece of tape on it, strapping down a little bundle of leafy vegetation that floats below it in a well-trimmed ball.

“I apologize,” The Hunter bows. “Fizzy, you didn't wait for me to explain what that's supposed to do.”

Hawthorne is the first to recover, looking up at the Ghost with a disbelieving shake of her head. “Mistletoe can grow around here,” She admits. “Been a while since I've seen any, though.”

“I am so sorry,” The Guardian continues in earnest. “Really-”

“No harm done,” Zavala says. “Though I suspect not everyone will be thrilled about the implication of her hanging over their heads.”

At that, the little Ghost turns to the Commander, tilting down to get a good look at his face. “Commander Zavala? What are you talking about?”

“Fizzy!” The Guardian snaps nervously, “When two people stand under a sprig of mistletoe together, they're supposed to kiss.”

The Ghost twirls her shell excitedly. “That sounds lovely!” She looks at Zavala and Hawthorne as expectantly as a Ghost possibly can. “Well, go on,” She encourages.

Zavala coughs, uncomfortably. Suraya looks away.

“You can't just tell people to kiss each other!”

The rising voice of the exasperated Guardian begins to cause a bit of a scene, especially as more and more of the people eating at tables on the other end of the room begin to look their way. Suraya shifts her stance to face the Commander, eyes boring into his face to get his attention. When he looks her way, she winks.

“Alright, easy you two,” The Clan Steward says. “Like Zavala said, no harm done.” She takes a step in his direction, looking for all the world like she’s about to kiss his cheek before she reaches up and plucks the Ghost from the air with deft hands and a shift onto her tiptoes. Gently, she presses her lips against the Ghost’s top fin in what she assumes would be a kiss on the forehead or cheek for a Ghost before releasing her.

Fizzy giggles at the notion, her little body vibrating in excitement as Suraya speaks. “There. Now you get to share in the tradition, too.” Her mahogany eyes shift toward the Ghost again, a touch more serious. “Can't imagine the Fallen or Cabal will be up for this, though, so be careful out there, okay? No making your Guardian kiss everyone they come across.”

“See, see? Told you! Holiday cheer!” The Ghost says, bobbing over to her Guardian victoriously. “I did it!”


	16. Chapter 16

They walk side by side through the main road that runs from one side of the Farm to the other. It’s nearly dark. They’ll have to leave soon, unable to spare another day to stay and help, not that there’s much more they personally can do than boost morale. It might make them feel more comfortable, but now, Suraya can begrudgingly admit she does more good in the City, fighting for what they need, than she does actually staying at the Farm and organizing scout parties to watch the people.

It still amazes her how big this place came to be. Bittersweet, of course, in light of recent tragedy - how they’d lost more survivors  _after_  the war than during - but even now, there are Dawning lanterns hanging from the front of each. Everyone is doing their best to be thankful, cheerful, and positive.

Everyone wants to look forward. Move forward. Keep on keepin’ on.

Suraya looks to her left and the Commander is watching her, his eyes intently focused on her face. She blinks back in confusion, but he is lost in thought, the lines of his face harder and his jaw set as he ponders whatever it is that's distracted him. It must be serious.

“You, uh, okay, over there?”

He blinks, concentration broken, and nods before looking away, toward the horizon. “Fine,” He states in a low register that makes her insides feel like lava. “The Dawning encourages reflection, contemplation.” He pauses before continuing. “It is important to look ahead to a brighter future, but arguably more so to remember how we've come this far.”

That, Suraya can agree with, and she does so with a subtle nod. “Well, if we're having a moment here,” She gestures around them. People carry on unaware, the sounds of work and play, young and old chiming in the background. “We've certainly come a long way. Even with the rest of the System trying to snuff us out.”

“Indeed we have.” His eyes alight on hers once more. Warm and vibrant, they are. He smiles, and it is genuine. It's staggering, every time. She's rather glad she could walk these roads with her eyes closed. “I could not have imagined a year like this.”

“Really?” Her lips pursed. “In all your years-” He cuts her off with a darker expression and she grins, always feeling a spike of joy, the rush in teasing him just a little. “Okay, okay. But seriously? For all you know about all this, all you've taught me about things like this, they… happen, y'know? I can't imagine, knowing what I know now, not to prepare for the extremes. Not that we're ever truly prepared for them, I guess, but-”

“I am not just speaking about the war,” Zavala intones. “There are… other things, that have happened since the last Dawning as well.”

She shrugs. She knows that. “I expect the unexpected.”

“Do you now?”

Her boots kick at the gravel on the road. “I mean, you kind of have to. Living the way I di- Oh. Yeah, see what you mean.” Her shoulders scrunch in a shrug once more. “It doesn't feel weird or out of place though,” She says. “I never thought I'd like living in the City again, after, well - that’s not a story for now.” Zavala's eyes narrow but he doesn't inquire. “And I definitely miss being out there,” She gesticulates toward the forest. “But, I feel like I'm where since need to be.”

If he walks a little closer to her after that, or he seems to push his chest out with just a touch more pride, she doesn't comment.

They come toward the landing area, the field, and veer around it in a wide loop, trying not to disturb the small group of children playing between the large goals. She looks toward Tyra's usual haunt, and sees her sitting beside her tools and books, Saladin and Devrim engaging her in conversation. She looks away in time to feel their gazes burning into her right side and sighs as subtly as she can.

She isn't paying attention and he bumps her with a pauldron when he intends to steer them back toward the barn they spent most of the war in, plotting and fighting and surviving. The contact of her shoulder and his plasteel armor isn't comfortable, but she recoils and recovers quickly enough that it doesn't seem as though anyone else notices. Zavala does though and looks down in concern until he sees her shaking her head in disbelief at herself. He allows a tiny chuckle, can’t help but smirk, and she looks to him furiously, leaning close.

“I should have kissed you in front of that Hunter and made a scene,” Suraya whispers madly to trip him up, eyes drilling into his own, irritated and hoping to make him uncomfortable to match. “I thought about it, too. Bet you wouldn’t have been able to talk for the rest of the day.”

Zavala stares at her. This is so very familiar, and yet so very new. Exciting. A different kind of fight, a battle that will yield sweet results. “An idle threat now,” He purrs dangerously, never once looking away. Heat coils in her belly. “Perhaps if you had something more substantial…”

“Well,” She straightens, smiling in a way that's sweet and sinister and he thinks of the night before, of dreams and of fantasies he will never admit, “Tyra, Saladin, and Dev are currently staring at us. How about if I kiss you now?”

That wins her a flush, and the widening of already naturally wide ethereal eyes. He almost sputters. “You wouldn't-”

Her grin splits wide.

“Suraya...”

“Of course I wouldn't, you big lug!” Peals of laughter escape from her in gasps that leave her desperate for air. She takes a few steps and turns back toward him. “C'mon.”

It's his turn to look disgruntled, and he does a good job of it, not quite sulking as he strides in the direction of their destination. She turns away, but she's not trying to lose him so he catches up quickly. There is no one within eyesight or earshot, he's swept the area, had his Ghost confirm. His palm is warm, through his glove, on her shoulder. The grip he has is firm, but not painful. She stills.

“If you believe you have the upper hand,” He breathes hotly over her hood, in turn heating her ear. “Perhaps you should recall last evening's activities, hmm?”

Her blush is obvious and high on her cheekbones, but her eyes dilate, and her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. If she's uncomfortable, she doesn't show it. And, he realizes, maybe she isn't, because she retorts, “I don't think I was the only one who enjoyed them.”

He hums. She isn't wrong.

“Plus, it's not like you gave me the chance to return the favor,” She points out brightly, edging forward just a smidge.

“It's not as if you were coherent enough to do much more than-” When he realizes where he's about to take things, in public no less, he reigns himself back in. “In any case-”

Her eyebrows rise marginally. “Yes?”

“We need to discuss things.” He looks at her carefully. “When we get back.”

“What? Worried you won't be able to resist me?”

“Suraya, please.” He looks unimpressed. “I am the most patient person you know.”

She snorts. “Would you like to test that theory?” Judging by the sounds he made in response to her sounds last night (she does her best not to cringe, he the one who asked her what she needed, this is his fault damn it), she’s willing to bet she can at least make him feel impatient, even if he exercises restraint.

“Eventually. But you know we must-”

“I do. And we will.” She leans in close, eyes darting around to make sure they’re still alone. “And then…” That wicked smirk returns, cheeky and haughty and damn if it doesn't do something to him. “I plan on finding out exactly what  _I_  do to  _you_.”


	17. Chapter 17

They can't catch a break for long. They're just in sight of the Tower, exhausted from a day of shaking hands, touring wreckage, and meeting with FOTC, the militia, and scouts to try and better manage the ailing Farm, when Zavala's ghost receives an urgent request from Deputy Commander Sloane.  _Fireteams lost in the Arcology. Need backup. Send “the Guardian” and their Fireteam._ **  
**

It doesn't matter that it's late, duty calls. Zavala takes off with a determined stride the second they land without so much as a backwards glance. Suraya is beat and sees herself home.

She suffers from terrible nightmares when she tries to sleep. Fire and burning, dying but screaming people beyond recognition, up in flames. She's sure it has to do with the lingering scent of death and jet fuel from the Farm, and being the type to push away everything bad until she has a moment to relax.

Of course, when she checks in with him at an hour he scolds her for ( _You should be sleeping, Suraya._ ), he tells her that the Hive has disconnected them from the rescue Fireteam they've sent for the other several Fireteams. He is worried, and he doesn't know what will happen.

She assures him that their Guardian will save the day, they always do.

Except, when they do, they barely save themselves and their team. The other four teams are dead for good, pointless sacrifices to the Hive. Suraya has seen the Hive before. She dislikes them more than Cabal, feels they are infinitely more creepy.

They are lucky enough to have the first majority of the following day free, if for no other reason than that they are supposed to be preparing the official revisions for the Farm's budget and preparing statements of need and estimation of losses. There are tons of hand written reports to go through. They will literally be buried in paperwork through the end of the Dawning at least, for the Farm alone. Suraya doesn't feel nearly as bad about taking the morning off to catch up on sleep or check up on wayward Commanders.

It’s around o’five thirty when the message comes through that he’s done with the strike. It’s twenty minutes later that she meets him at his door, keying in the code he’d given her as he comes around the corner. The look on his face is stoic enough, but his eyes give away everything.

She holds his door open, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say. She’d been listening in for the last hour and a half - using a frequency trick she’d learned from Amanda. Seems their girls nights were good for something, after all. Suraya had learned quite a bit about how to get Tower intel easily from the Shipwright, who was almost always in the know or never far behind.

The Commander enters silently. “Let me freshen up,” He requests. “Then we can return to my office and get what we need to get started-” She collides with his back, arms snaking under his armored arms to lock around his front. He sighs, sagging into her, just a little.

If the armor pressing into her face is uncomfortable, she doesn’t comment and only holds tight. “We need sleep. We can discuss it this afternoon.”

“We don’t always have the luxury,” He grumbles back. “Those Fireteams-”

“It isn’t your fault,” She reminds him. “We can’t control all of it. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“This is different, Suraya.”

She shakes her head, nose smooshing against plasteel. “It’s not. Whether it’s one person or one hundred. We can’t control it all, try as we might. We can only make sure it doesn’t happen again.” She exhales against him. “I know you’ve told me that. Recently.”

When her arms release him, she comes around to his front and smiles a sad little smile up into his tired eyes. He leans forward, lips brushing her forehead. “You are far too good for me,” He whispers. “Have it your way.”

“I will,” She says, with a cheeky pull of her lips when he pulls away. “But you’re wrong about that first part. I think we deserve each other.”

He looks at her, eyes wide. “Suraya, I-”

A hand touches the side of his face, gentle and soothing. “Go get cleaned up. You’re not allowed in bed all gross and smelly.”

He looks indignant at that, and Suraya is thrilled that she's managed to change the subject well enough. “I do not smell,” He grouses. The embarrassment is obvious on his face, but his words are laced with irritation. “And since when do you determine who is or is not allowed in my bed?”

She laughs. He doesn’t actually smell(that she can tell), she just knows it’s been over a day since he’s been out of his armor, and a shower would totally help him unwind. “I mean,” She looks at him with a narrowed gaze. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” She quips. “Pretty sure I’ve done more sleeping in your bed lately than you have. You should work on that.”

The eye roll he gives her is spectacular, but he does not argue.

-/

Zavala is the type of man who could spend over an hour in the shower, reflecting, planning, adapting to anything that could possibly come his way. This is none of those times, though he can feel his mind running through scenarios, hypotheticals that don’t actually matter any more. He cannot will his brain to shut off, to cease it’s unnecessary anxiety, grieve, and move past what happened.

No sense of playfulness or desire to see Suraya sweat drives what leaves him dressed in only sleep pants when he finally exits the washroom. She clearly was trying to get him to relax, and while his mind might not be willing to, his body is bone tired and makes him unwilling to take the extra steps.

The parallels of the situation are crystal clear. It was similar to the one she found herself in, days ago, on a much larger scale. Sometimes he wondered just how much they could all take. Would the day come where something would happen that would finally break them all apart? It was selfish, but he hopes he doesn’t live to see that day.

Sometimes, he - sometimes it was just so hard to keep hoping.

It seems she’s asleep when he comes to bed, his footfalls slow and heavy. He speaks quietly to his Ghost - telling her exactly what to wake him for, even though she knows - and turns back to the bed, only to find her propped up on an elbow, pulling back the blankets on his side.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Her head shakes in a silent no, and he sighs when he slides between the sheets. It’s strange and new when she faces him to fall asleep. He’s used to spooning her - which is a strange enough thought in itself considering they’ve only done this a handful of times.

Try as he might, despite how limp and exhausted his body feels, he can’t fall asleep, his mind won’t rest. It feels like hours that he lays there, and no amount of focusing on his breathing - slow and steady, in, out - or attempting to clear his headspace will allow him to achieve that state of relaxation he needs.

A hand smooths over his brow. “Wanna talk about it?” Her voice is rough and sleep addled, but she scoots closer to him, so that her knees brush his own.

He opens his eyes, shaking his head into the pillow.

“Hmm,” She says, thinking about it aloud and forcing herself to wake up a touch. “Something else then,” Her eyes blink open, and she shuffles a little, waking herself back up. He opens his mouth to tell her to go back to sleep, but she smiles a little. “Tell me a secret,” She requests.

Glowing eyes open wide as his brows furrow. “A secret?”

She nods. “Or, anything you think I don’t know. I’ll go first. I hate spiders.”

The absurdity of it is unreal. This is what she wants to do? “Suraya, I’ll fall asleep eventually-”

“That’s not a secret,” Her head dips in a pillow-obscured frown. “I know that already.”

“I…” He sighs, giving in to her little game, "Enjoy beef stroganoff.”

She laughs. “I know a recipe. Play your cards right and I’ll cook it for you.” A beat later, she says, “When I was younger, Marc signed up for yoga to try and calm me down. He thought it would help keep my temper from getting the best of me.”

“Yoga?” His voice is incredulous. “Do you still-”

“Marc gave up after I tripped a girl in my class who told me I was too fat to be a yogi. Dev started taking me to the shooting range instead.” It’s his turn to laugh while she rolls her eyes. “Becoming a sniper taught me more patience than anything else ever could.”

When silence takes over, he offers, “I haven’t held a sniper rifle in decades. I’m not that patient.”

“Now that’s gotta be a lie. Surely you’ve held my rifle at least?” He’s shaking his head in the negative, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face. Good, she thinks, it’s working. 

“Really,” Zavala insists. “I need to be in the thick of it. Assault rifles are more my style.”

“See, I thought it was those glowing fists of yours.”

“I prefer the Ward of Dawn. I wish to protect. If that means destroying our enemies, so be it, but I do not believe in useless killing.”

“I know,” She breathes back. Her fingers trail up his arm and over his shoulder before heading back down.

“You owe me two,” He says, voice a low hum. Her hand continues to slide up and down, eventually coming to rest on his back. It nudges him closer to her, or maybe she shifts forward. He doesn’t really notice until his head is tucked under her chin, and even then, his eyes are starting to feel heavy.

“Hmm,” She says quietly. “First,” She breathes into his ear, “You are absolutely falling asleep.” It's a weak secret. When he doesn’t argue, she knows it won’t be long until he’s out. But then he shifts and puts an arm over her, pulling them flush together, his breathing warm and even against her collarbone.

“The second?” He asks in a sleepy slur, a few moments later.

She kisses his forehead and runs her hand up and down his back. “This one’s not much of a secret, either,” She whispers against his skin. “I want to be with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

He doesn’t answer, and she’s sure he’s already asleep, but it feels like her heart is going to burst when he holds her just a little bit tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more after this, friends. we're almost there.


	18. Chapter 18

It's snowing the next morning when she wakes up and carefully detangles herself from the exhausted Commander. She closes the bedroom door behind her and pads quietly into the kitchen to prepare some caffeine, noting that ice and snow have stuck to the kitchen window. A check of her tablet indicates it's likely to continue most of the day, and with the weather similarly terrible in the EDZ, any chances they have of being called to help out with strikes are dashed. Looks like their day, barring further emergencies, will be entirely free.

She skips putting on pants in lieu of throwing the blanket from the back of the couch over her bare legs and snuggling into it while she drinks her coffee and attempts to sort out some more of the Farm’s budget.

A flicker from her peripheral gets her attention. When she gazes over, there's a whirling chitter that can only mean a Ghost. Thankfully, the pristine white shell confirms that it is Zavala's partner and not Sundance. A surprise appearance from Cayde's ghost is something she'd never live down.

The Ghost flutters elegantly from her originating point to sway directly in front of Hawthorne.

“Hello,” The little AI says, demurely enough.

“Hi,” Suraya replies. They stare at each other. Time passes.

“You've been around a lot, lately.” The Ghost comments eventually. Her voice is very soft. “Are you, um, moving in?”

Suraya blushes and stammers, “What?!”

The sharp tone of her voice causes his Ghost to flit over and behind the opposing end of the couch. She peeks up and over the arm, and cowers again when Suraya is staring at her as she emerges.

“Oh!” Suraya sets aside her tablet. “Wait,” She lowers her voice. “I didn't mean to frighten you,” She murmurs, legs shifting under the blanket. Zavala had told her once that his ghost was a bit of an introvert, and that she only really hung around in the open when necessary or extremely bored. Seems neither of them really know what to say, or are good at meeting new people. She sighs. “I'm sorry.”

A single white fin with an orange clip and the tippy-top of an optic peers at her from the other end of the sofa. “I'm shy,” She says, child-like, as if that should explain everything.

Suraya giggles at her very adorable chattering of the obvious. “I think you're cute,” She offers instead of commenting on her demeanor. “What's your name?”

“A-adelaide,” She whispers, but does not come out, not yet. “Zavala calls me Addy,” She says when she finally emerges from hiding, in the sweetest, proudest little tone Suraya has ever heard.

-/

It's almost noon before Zavala wakes, and when he does, it's blissfully silent in his bedroom. How well-rested he is surprises him, and when he rolls onto his back, there is no mistaking that he's been alone in the bed for hours. Her side of the bed has long since gone cold. He does not dwell long on the place that he's assigned her. It should give him pause, he thinks, and yet it does not.

By the time he rises, another half hour has gone by - quite a lie-in for him, he thinks, and when he leaves the bedroom, he edges the door open to hear tiny peals of laughter.

“You didn't!” His Ghost is chiming in her child-like voice. “No way!”

“I did,” Suraya's voice carries down the hall. “Broke his nose, too.”

“That's bad,” The reply comes, immediately. Adelaide has a rather similar moral code to his own, “But it sounds like he deserved it. I don't trust him.”

“Me neither. Good thing Zavala has you to look out for him.”

“Yeah,” His little Light says. And then, “Oh, you might want to revise that bit about expenditures.” There's a brief silence before she continues. “The Consensus always tears that stuff apart so make sure you go into detail about the allocation of resources. Zavala uses percentages so they're too busy doing the math to argue with him.”

His girls laugh together, and Zavala's heart feels unbearably, overwhelmingly full.

The sight that greets him in the living room is something. Suraya is laying on her belly, on the couch, toned legs bent, feet in the air kicking back and forth. Adelaide hovers over her shoulder, far less timid than he's expected, clearly reading whatever documents she's going over.

He clears his throat and both turn to regard him warily, as if they've been caught doing something they shouldn't have. “What do we have here,” He queries, his eyes twinkling.

“Addy and I are working. Not all of us can lay in bed all day,” Suraya says. Adelaide's cones twitch in a silent laugh before she hovers over to her Guardian.

Zavala hums at his Ghost, which she takes as approval, before saying to Suraya, “Do you often work in so little clothing?”

“Do you mind?” She asks back.

He slides a hand up the back of one of her calves, withdrawing as it rides higher up on her thigh. “Hardly,” The Commander murmurs appreciatively.

Adelaide takes the hint, zooming over to nudge the side of Suraya's face before shivering into warm motes of light. Suraya sets down her pen, puts her tablet on the coffee table. “I don't suppose you'd like to go back to bed,” She asks him.

His brows furrow. “Are you tired?”

She looks amused when he blinks at her in worry. She wets her lips and smiles. “Not in the slightest.”

-/

Their conversation, when they finally get to it, is held in the bedroom. Suraya lays gloriously bare, unwrapped like a Dawning gift atop the sheets. Her nudity does not bother her. It does bother Zavala, however, as the sight of lean muscle and tawny skin, dusky budded nipples, and a handful of scattered scars demand his attention. He forces himself to look away, displeased at how distracted this all makes him. Perhaps it was her fault, he reasons, considering she was the one who pushed herself up onto all fours to get off the couch, giving him perfect sightlines under her baggy t-shirt. Partially his fault for finally kissing her, he supposes, but that was so long overdue he didn't really think it counted.

“You went through the effort to get me undress-”

“You were hardly wearing anything to begin with,’ Zavala reminds her. “Siren,” He adds for good measure.

She shrugs and drags a finger up his abdomen, following a fractal pattern under his skin. He gasps when her finger skirts around his nipple. “So, since you're bordering on impatient, and we already know I'm willing,” She slides her curtain of ebony-ink hair over her back so that it's out of the way. “Feelings. We should talk about them,” Her finger is joined by the rest of her palm in sliding back down coiled muscle. He shudders when she reaches his navel, hand smoothing over the waistband of his pants. His hips jerk. It's flattering.

His eyes close when her thumb tucks under the waistband, anticipation heady in the air. “Suraya, if you keep touching me like this, there's not going to be-”

“Then tell me you love me too and let's get on with it. We've been dancing around this long enough.”

She always has a way of being most confident at the strangest times. Like now, propped on an elbow, bare-ass naked beside him, confessing her feelings as if it's the easiest thing she'll do all day. “That simple, is it?”

“Obviously not,” She shrugs. “Love doesn't change the fact that I won't live forever, or that we're both going to go do things that put us in danger to help others.”

“No,” He agrees, “It does not.”

“I'm not great at this mushy stuff,” Suraya admits, but Zavala thinks she's doing just fine. “We're good for each other, you know?”

He does.

“And I've thought about it, and I feel like if we want to be together, we should be.”

Zavala chuckles. “Stop trying to convince me,” He chides. She frowns until he continues, “I desire you. Mind, body, and soul.” His palm traces down her arm, to her hips and thighs before coming back up. “I’m in love with you,” he confesses, when his hand cups her cheek, thumb tucked under her chin to tilt it toward him.

Suraya beams at him. “Good. I'm in love with you, too.”

“I gathered that,” He gestures to her state of undress.

“Did you?” With the quickness of a Hunter, she's atop him. He gasps at the friction of their pelvises lining up, but it's the wicked smile she gives him that make his eyes roll back into his skull.

“I-” The sound he makes is almost a purr, and it sends liquid heat coursing south, “-Might have gotten that idea.”

The Clanswoman hums in approval, but her breathing is speeding up and thankfully the conversation has been short, sweet, and to the point. There are more urgent matters to attend to.

Namely ripping his clothes off and fucking him well into the evening.

-/

“Normally,” He tells her, as they walk through the streets of the Last Safe City, on the last day of the Dawning, “We would have had a ball right in the middle of the Dawning. We will have to resume that tradition next year.”

She looks at him in surprise but continues moving forward, the two of them moving around people in the street like a cohesive unit, nodding politely to those who acknowledge them. “Like, with dancing and whatever?”

“If by whatever you mean a formal dinner, with dancing, refreshments, and merriment all around.”

“You know I'm not Cinderella, right?” She leans into the arm he's put around her shoulders, looking up into brilliant eyes. “Don't expect to see me spun up in taffeta and wearing heels.”

“That you know what taffeta is astounds me,” He quips.

“So I didn't know what merino is,” She yanks ever so gently on the scarf around his neck - it's a cherished gift from an old friend, and she's careful in handling it. “That doesn't mean I'm completely uneducated.”

“You've been washing your poncho incorrectly for years,” he points out, the smile extending to his lips from his eyes.

“I am so done playing the secret game with you.”

“Uh huh,” He chuckles, disbelievingly. “That's what you said when I killed that spider for you.”

“That’s because I said I hate spiders. Not to murder them on sight! And thanks to you, Cayde found out. He's got Sundance taking pictures of every one she sees and sending them to me.”

The shudder is for dramatic effect, but Zavala hadn't known that Cayde was picking on her. “I'll talk to him,” He says. “He'll stop.”

She laughs. “Yes, become the protective Titan boyfriend in front of the most romantic being in the Tower. He'll just torment you, instead.”

Zavala stops walking, and Suraya stumbles. He was holding on to her arm pretty good. She turns around to regard him with wide, dark eyes. “Everything okay?”

“Boyfriend?” The look on his face as he parses the word makes him look like he's trying to speak in tongues.

She shrugs. “Do… do Guardians call it something different?” She gestures between them. “I didn't think…” Her arms flop uselessly to her sides.

“Boyfriend feels so-”

“ _Manfriend_  sounds worse, Zavala. I don't know what you want from me here.”

He steps forward and thinks for a moment. She fiddles with her scarf, smoothing her hands down the rows of his handiwork almost reverently despite her obvious anxiety.

“Crimson Bonds.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Each year,” He says, and instead of wrapping his arms around her shoulder once more, he loops his arm through hers. “Shaxx celebrates the Crimson Days with doubles matches. The teams are meant to be made up of couples, comprised of-”

“I know what the Crimson Days are, Zavala. But more importantly, did you lose your marbles? You do remember that I can't go into the Crucible, right? That's suicide.”

“Obviously,” He huffs, mildly irked, acutely aware of her humanity. “However, to describe you as my Crimson Bond seems far more appropriate than to call you my girlfriend.” It's a wry smirk that he gives her as he says, “You are neither a girl, nor are we friends.”

“Pretty sure we're best friends,” She says easily, but the teasing tone in her voice hides something else they both agree on.

He laughs quietly in his way and drops a discreet kiss to the top of her hood. “Perhaps,” He considers, “We are much, much more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap! Thank you so so so much to everyone who has taken the time to read, comment, and leave kudos. I love writing this pairing and sharing it with you all. (So much that I've started drafting up a sequel to this that covers our current year's Dawning. If that interests you, let me know!)
> 
> also, you can keep up with me on Tumblr: @distant--storm


End file.
